


The Measure of Days

by pressforward



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Amputation, Blue!Hawke - Freeform, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, I just think the emotional healing process involves learning to be a caregiver as well, Just wanted to see all the mess that happens when Fenris tries to figure it out, M/M, Mage!Hawke - Freeform, Medical Procedures, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, World State - Lavellan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:42:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 46,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28634199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pressforward/pseuds/pressforward
Summary: Three months after being presumed lost in the Fade, Garrett Hawke drops out of the sky missing an arm. Varric sends some letters. Fenris books it to Skyhold.A deeply self-indulgent exploration of ‘What does one do after reconciling trauma? (Why, go poke it some more with a stick!)’, ‘Why doesn’t Hawke cry on-screen more?,’ and ‘What if Fenris met every member of the Inquisition?’Updates Friday PM, EST
Relationships: Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age), Fenris/Male Hawke
Comments: 11
Kudos: 104





	1. Chapter 1

Fenris is climbing a mountain. 

Fortunately, there is a path, but the altitude and Ferelden’s damnable weather make the air sharp in his lungs, and he takes no joy from it. His chest is hot, his nose and eyes are cold, and he has decided, once again, that he hates snow. He has his aim in sight, though.  
  
Skyhold.  
  
The Inquisition stronghold is that, a strong hold perched atop a mountain, inaccessible to all but pilgrims, zealots, and demons dropping out of the sky, and he is none of these. Regardless, he continues up the snowy path. He is glad for stolen boots, though they make his feet sweat.  
  
The path remains steady though, grooves worn into dirt and snow crushed down into ice. Very little has come this way within the last few days, edges of footprints and wheel tracks alike softened and blurred by the thaw during the day and the freeze at night. He focuses on this to keep from focusing on how long has has been walking, the discomfiting dampness of socks and boots, the encroaching weakness in his knees, and this brings him the rest of the way up the mountain to Skyhold’s front gate.  
  
The guards do not let him pass.  
  
“Halt. What business do you have in Skyhold?”  
  
“Urgent,” he says, and waits, breath steaming in the cold.  
  
“Uh.”  
  
At least one of the guards has the grace to laugh. The rest merely shift and look uncomfortable, though one ducks her head. Another, towards the back, sidles away and departs swiftly. Pointless to call attention to it, but his weight shifts, and he flexes his hands.  
  
“That’s not really an answer, ser.”  
  
It should be.  
  
They are examining him somewhat closer now.  
  
“Is that blood?”  
  
It is. “There were spiders on the pass.”  
  
“This high up? Awful.”  
  
_“That_ is not spider blood, ser,” says a man in front, pointing.  
  
“There were bandits on the pass as well.” He adds heavily into the silence, “I do not require thanks.”  
  
Another laugh. A few others join this time. Presently, they will decide he is no threat, and become accommodating. He’s seen it before. It should work.  
  
“There weren’t bandits on the spiders, were there?”  
  
“Other way round. Send for Varric, if you would. I must speak with him immediately.”  
  
“Are you his editor?” someone calls from the back to general guffaws. He gauges this a good a moment as any, and starts forward.  
  
The two guards in front step to block him off, one holding out a hand.  
  
“Hang on, now. If you’re here to join, that’s all well and good, but we can’t allow an armed stranger to roam freely through Skyhold. You will have to disarm.”  
  
He will do no such thing. “Send for Varric, then. He’ll vouch for me.”  
  
“Maker, if we let in everybody who knew Varric’s name, there’d be a line out the gates by now. Do you have proof you know him? A letter will do.”  
  
He burned the letters, both of them.  
  
“No.”  
  
The two in front exchange glances. After a moment, the one to his right sighs and sets her shoulders, turning back to Fenris.  
  
“If you could please come with us, ser.”  
  
Now there’s a familiar tone. He backs up two steps and eyes them, then the top of the gate. He should expect archers. If he circles towards the wall, however, he can make it harder for them to hit him, and the gate may well serve as a chokepoint for the guards on the ground.  
  
The guards are now all watching him very attentively.  
  
“Ser, disarm and come with us.”  
  
Resisting is not the wisest option, but it is the only viable one for him. He is exhausted, encumbered, and the air is thin; his maneuverability will be affected, even more so if he cannot drop his pack in time. He has fought through worse.  
  
“Hold up!”  
  
A sturdy figure in crimson and gold approaches, breaking into a light jog upon drawing closer, which is the fastest he has seen Varric move of his own volition. Fenris lowers his hand, softens his stance, does his best to look as harmless as possible. His best in this endeavor is not particularly good, so he hopes Varric will appreciate the effort.  
  
Varric slows as he draws closer, makes a quick shooing gesture with both his hands. Fenris isn’t quite sure where he expects the guards to go, but waits regardless.  
  
“Go on now, show’s over, he’s with me.”  
  
“Varric? Thank the Maker. Do you really know this elf?”  
  
“Captain, would you believe he once rescued me from the unwanted attentions of several sultry pirates?” Varric asks, grinning. He sounds as though he hopes they will believe it, but does not expect them to.  
  
It is true, though, inasmuch as there was only one pirate, and she had discerned the location of one of Varric’s hidden pockets during a game of Wicked Grace. Fenris had taken two queens from her unattended hand and nearly gotten away with it. It had been a good night.  
  
This time, most of the guard company laughs. The captain shakes her head.  
  
“You’re friends with everyone, Master Tethras.”  
  
This is also true, and still completely baffling even after several years of acquaintanceship. He suspects the guards feel much the same.  
  
Varric fully turns his attention to Fenris, shoulders and feet turning away from the guards just enough to cut them out of the conversation, and he spreads his arms wide, palms up, as though Fenris were a misplaced draft of his. No embrace, this. It is good Varric remembers his preference.  
  
“Maker’s breath, Elf! Is that really you? I thought it’d take another week!”  
  
“You’ve underestimated me again, Varric.” He is waiting for movement in his peripheral vision. If they do not know Hawke is here, he sees no need to inform them.  
  
“Last time I heard that, I was out ten sovereigns,” Varric remarks as he draws closer, grinning. He hasn’t changed much, Fenris thinks. Or guesses, really. A new scar. Deeper lines.  
  
He adds, “I’m still convinced you were cheating, by the way.”  
  
Endless delays. Fenris clenches his teeth to keep from saying anything unwise, then manages, “We have some unfinished business, you and I.”  
  
At this, Varric laughs, then rolls his eyes as he gestures Fenris through the gate and into the courtyard. “Nice to see you too, hasn’t it been a while, we should catch up. Right this way.”  
  
The guards part easily for him now, and he keeps pace with Varric as they walk towards what must be the central hall.  
  
They are well out of earshot of the gate when Fenris says, “Where is he?”  
  
Varric glances back at him. Some of the strain has disappeared from the corners of his mouth, but he still carries it in his shoulders. The situation is not good, but he would not be joking if— The situation is manageable, then.  
  
“Through here. There were some quiet rooms above the garden, and we didn’t want to move him too far. Just a little longer.”  
  
“How is he?”  
  
“He’s--” Varric reconsiders. “Well, let me start with the good news. He’s alive. And not in the Fade anymore. So there’s that.”  
  
This is less reassuring than Varric might imagine.  
  
“And the bad news?”  
  
Varric hesitates, then continues up the stairs a little slower than before. A heavy dread settles in Fenris, but he keeps pace.  
  
“It wasn’t an easy fight,” Varric says finally. “I should clarify: Most of him isn’t in the Fade anymore. Little something got left behind.”  
  
He glances back, makes a quick motion at his right shoulder, hand flat like a knife.  
  
“So…”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Impossible. Fenris does not stumble, but for an instant he feels as though he has missed a step. It must have hurt. It must have hurt a great deal.  
  
_“How?”_  
  
“How should I know! Funny thing about being left behind to take on a giant spider demon in the Fade! _You tend to get hurt.”_  
  
Is that how it happened. His steps slow, and he does not realize until Varric turns, walks back to him.  
  
“Maker. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. It’s been a difficult month.”  
  
“Hawke does have that effect,” he says, words hollow, but Varric manages a smile.  
  
“Don’t I know it! Listen. He’s better than he was when we first recovered him but. Just brace yourself, is all I’m saying.”  
  
For what, he does not ask. Instead he focuses on another detail he did not receive in the first of Varric’s letters addressed solely to him, uncharacteristically short.  
  
“He was left behind?”  
  
Varric hesitates again, then says, “Let’s talk about it later.”  
  
It sounds like a long story, or one Varric will make longer than necessary for his own sense of the dramatic. He does not ask, and follows without further question.  
  
Varric leads him the rest of the way up the stairs, then through a stone hall, richly carpeted. The afternoon light isn’t at the right angle to fully illuminate the wall of stained glass at the far back, but it still seems to glow. There is a chair that could easily be called a throne, the eye on the back watchful even without the inquisitor’s presence. He hadn’t realized what a reach the Inquisition was beginning to wield. The reality is discomfiting.  
  
They pass through a simple garden, and he eyes the pots, banked over for the winter. What little remains is yellow and withered; none of the evergreens from the mountain itself or even the courtyard appear to have made it into the garden.  
  
Varric turns, follows the path towards a set of stairs towards the back. He pauses partway up, as though reconsidering, but Fenris has heard it too: the familiar cadence of Hawke doing his best to sound reasonable, despite the inherent absurdity of whatever he might actually be saying. It doesn’t sound as though the other party is convinced. Good for them.  
  
He catches himself suddenly with one hand on the wall, and tolerates the odd look from Varric by not examining it too closely. He is overtired. It has been a long day. It has been a long journey from Kirkwall. It has been many, many long months.  
  
Varric does not comment, and they proceed the rest of the way up the stairs. The distant voices quiet, then start up again, and continue on. He only takes his hand from the wall as they reach the upper level.  
  
They pass one door, then another, Varric nodding to the templar stationed outside it. Fenris eyes the templar as they pass, uncertain. Their presence has meant nothing good for Hawke. He does not ask, and Varric does not volunteer to provide any answers.  
  
At the last door, Varric pauses. Fenris straightens, makes to step around him, but he holds out a hand and says, “Wait here, would you? He’s had a rough couple of weeks. I want to make sure he’s prepared.”  
  
Fenris does not _want_ to wait, but Varric is being careful in a way he so infrequently is. It would be more prudent to wait, certainly.  
  
“Very well.”  
  
“Great,” Varric says, and goes to rap lightly on the door. He does not wait for a response, but eases into the room before the sharp ‘What’ from the unknown party. He leaves the door ajar. “Someone to see you, Hawke.”  
  
Fenris edges closer.  
  
There is a pause, then a familiar laugh, even if much quieter than usual. “Everyone wants to see me these days. Well, who next? Already seen the king of Ferelden, can’t be him. The empress of Orlais? The new arishok? Andraste herself?”  
  
The unknown voice breaks in again. “I don’t care if it’s the Maker, you will drink this before I leave. No more guests before he takes his medicine, Varric. You’ve see what he’s like. First new thing happens, he’ll be off after it like a mabari after rabbits—“  
  
“I take offense to that! A mabari is a loyal and trusted companion—“  
  
“Not a single other thought in his head—“  
  
“He _is_ Fereldan, you know.”  
  
“Properly trained, a mabari would never—“  
  
“And Maker knows it’s been difficult enough keeping the life in this man the past month—“  
  
“I hear and respect your professional opinion, but you might want to make an exception for this one.”  
  
“The exact kind of behavior that caused this issue in the first place—“  
  
“Also it tastes awful, and I can’t believe they give you leave to inflict this upon the infirm. A proper torturer, you are—“  
  
Enough is enough. Fenris pushes the door open and says, “Just do as the healer says, Hawke!”  
  
Nerves make the words come much louder than expected. Those, and the silence that falls as Hawke stares back at him, protests forgotten. He would most likely still have recognized Hawke, but. It seems a near thing.  
  
Hawke has always been a large man, broad and big-bellied. Solid. Striking.  
  
Immovable.  
  
For all that, something has moved him now. Bowled him over. Dragged him by his heels to Antiva and back, and left him in the dirt. His eyes are deepset and bruised, face ashen and gaunt. His beard has gone to uneven stubble, one side of his face scraped, and forehead as mottled red and purple as the swollen skin around his right eye. His frame is still broad, still imposing but now it is all bones hung over with slack skin. He looks hollowed, like something had dug inside him and started consuming him from the inside out. Like a forest after a fire.  
  
Still though. Still.  
  
_“Thank_ you,” the healer says, then sets a hand on Hawke’s left shoulder as he makes to rise and says, “Careful,” then, “Varric, would you mind the door?”  
  
His balance is off. His silhouette is off. But he is breathing and speaking and present, outside the Fade. Fenris is already starting forward. He had, in some part, been prepared for it to be untrue, but it is.  
  
Hawke is alive.  
  
“Who— Excuse me, ser, but you really shouldn’t— Varric, who is this?” the healer demands. “He’s filthy!”  
  
Meanwhile Varric has stepped in front of her, saying, “Come on, taciturn elf, little bit of an accent, big sword, fancy tattoos? Doesn’t ring any bells?”  
  
“Maker have mercy. Didn’t you say you last had a letter from Kirkwall? That was hardly last week.”  
  
Fenris is pushing past them both; his destination is here.  
  
“Hang on now, Elf, can you wait for just one minute, just one—“  
  
“You said three weeks!” Hawke says accusingly to Varric, his entire attention turned away. Fenris slows but does not halt.  
  
“He walks fast!”  
  
“Across the _Waking Sea?”_ says the healer.  
  
“I’m assuming he had help!”  
  
He did, but pointless to argue about it as Hawke is trying to do, still looking past him. Ten steps more, likely less.  
  
_“Hawke,”_ he says, a low harsh sound that feels as though it were torn from him, and Hawke looks back at him at last, then holds out his left hand and says,  
  
_“Stop.”_  
  
He stops.  
  
Hawke’s hand is trembling, and he looks away. Without meaning to his gaze falls upon Hawke’s empty right sleeve instead. Hawke flinches, hand curling back to his lap. He retreats, as always, to humor.  
  
“I know,” he says. “I’m not as pretty as I was when I left.” He manages a sickly grin, then lifts his left hand to waggle the fingers. “Or as dexterous.”  
  
Fenris feels his mouth work, suddenly dry and ineffectual. He clears his throat and manages, “You know I find it sinister when you joke like that, Hawke.”  
  
Agony. These are the first words they have exchanged in nearly half a year. It is familiar ground, at least.  
  
“Ah, romance,” Varric says.  
  
Reflex makes him scoff. Hawke is rubbing the corner of his left eye only, right swollen nearly shut.  
  
“Varric,” he says unsteadily. “Varric, is the window open?”  
  
“Window’s open, Hawke. Plenty of sun. Nice day for a walk, even up an entire mountain, maybe.”  
  
Fenris shoots him a dark look. Varric remains totally unrepentant, and continues.  
  
“Come on, look at him. He’s usually prettier when you think of him, I bet. Cleaner, too.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Just hush for a second, will you?”  
  
Hawke sits up and turns the window, shuffling his whole body around in increments to do so. Unexpectedly, it hurts. It hurts to watch him.  
  
He stays that way for a very long time. Or at least it seems much longer than it is. His breathing is unsteady. He brings his hand to his face, wiping first the left then, very carefully, the right. If there is something of interest past the castle walls, Fenris cannot see it.  
  
He unwinds his scarf, lowers his hood, keeps his pack on a little longer. He cannot tell where to put it, does not want to move. Standing still, his pack seems to weigh more than it did as he was walking, straps pushing uncomfortably against his armor, shoulders and back beginning to ache, but it is just for a little longer. Just a little longer, he reminds himself, keeps breathing, keeps watching Hawke.  
  
Finally, Hawke turns away from the window.  
  
“Fenris?”  
  
It is too much to bear any longer. He struggles briefly with his gauntlets, with his pack, then leaves them, takes the last few steps towards Hawke. He will be careful, he is careful, so careful. He sets one palm to the back of Hawke’s head, the other on his left shoulder as Hawke makes a small sound and pulls him closer, presses his face to Fenris’s breastplate.  
  
He has no words for this.  
  
Behind him, there is a sigh. “Ser Hawke, please take your face off that, it’s covered in blood.”  
  
Hawke only winds his arm around Fenris’s back, finding space between both pack and sword.  
  
“Ser? Ser, ah. Could you—“  
  
“Please don’t take him from me,” Hawke says, voice choked and wet.  
  
Fenris curls both hands closer around Hawke, arms circling around, and shifts his weight. He will fight, if it comes to it. He has no desire to. He is very tired. But he will.  
  
“Why don’t you try coming back later?” Varric suggests in an undertone to the healer.  
  
She sighs again. “Please make sure he takes his medicine.”  
  
“Did you hear that, Elf?”  
  
“I heard.”  
  
“We’ll do our best,” Varric says to the healer, voice growing distant.  
  
The door shuts, but he gives it no further notice. Hawke sounds as though he may be weeping, but will not lift his head. His hand slides across Fenris’s back, and when he looks up, his face is damp and speckled with grit.  
  
“I’ve missed you so much.”  
  
“I’m here now,” Fenris says quietly, then reaches to brush away the flakes that have stuck to Hawke’s face.  
  
Hawke leans away immediately, puts his hand over the back of the gauntlet. “Not with those, you don’t. Take your armor off and give me a proper hug.”  
  
Fenris unslings his sword from his shoulder before shedding his pack. He leaves the pack on the floor, then glances about and leans his sword against the dresser by the bed. Hawke makes a soft exasperated noise.  
  
“It’s just going to fall over.”  
  
“It will be fine,” Fenris says, but crouches to lay it beneath the bed anyway. He removes his cloak, scarf, cowl as well, and wads the whole bundle beneath the bed as an afterthought. He starts to fumble for the clasp of his left gauntlet, but his fingers are stiff and clumsy, and the pointed tips won’t catch properly.  
  
“Let me,” Hawke says.  
  
Fenris looks up at him, eyes soft, mouth set, then lays his left hand in Hawke’s lap, palm up. “Here.”  
  
Hawke turns slightly, for better light, runs his fingertips over the thick wool wrapped to cover the front and back.  
  
“Clever of you. Weren’t your fingers cold?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Poor Fen,” he says quietly, finding the clasp despite how his hand is shaking.  
  
It comes undone, and Fenris peels himself from his armor in a daze, fast as he can and still not fast enough. He leaves it in a heap by the dresser and Hawke sniffs, then recoils, laughing.  
  
“Maker’s ass, Fen, is that _you?_ You smell _awful_ and _I don’t care,_ come here, please let me hold you, please.”  
  
He is too late. Fenris has already risen to one knee to pull him close, arms tight about his waist, face to his chest. This close, Hawke is over-warm, with a slight rasp to his breathing. Worry rises in him again.  
  
“You’re a bit warm.”  
  
“Mm,” Hawke says, head bowed over his, arm tight around his shoulders. “I may have, what’s the word. Overexerted myself? Very slightly. Hardly at all.”  
  
“Of course you did.”  
  
Softly, Hawke says, “Are you terribly angry with me?”  
  
A fast mission, he had said. A quick one, hardly worth going except as a personal favor to Varric. Back before he was missed at all.  
  
“I was, the whole way here.”  
  
“And now?”  
  
Fenris turns his head, is listening to the rush of Hawke’s breathing, the telltale and rapid beat of his heart. “And now I’m finding it very difficult.”  
  
“I blame the natural charm.”  
  
“It’s the natural _something,_ certainly.”  
  
It hasn’t sunk in yet. He has his arms around Hawke’s waist, chest to his stomach, ribs bracketed by his thighs, but there is still something intangible about it. As though it were a dream.  
  
Hawke turns his head, then abruptly snorts and lifts his head. _“Maker!_ When’s the last time you had a bath?”  
  
“Your guess is as good as mine.”  
  
“Fen. That’s appalling.”  
  
He doesn’t deign to reply, pulls his head back to look up at Hawke. The grit is still on his face. He reaches to rub away a fleck, and this time, Hawke lets him.  
  
“Is there a cloth and warm water?”  
  
Hawke straightens and waves a hand vaguely towards the fireplace. “There, somewhere. Warm water, at least. Cloth on the table, maybe. I’m never sure where anything is anymore.”  
  
“Unfortunate,” he says, walking around the dresser to pass the fire, noting the ewer warming to the side.  
  
Hawke is silent as he fishes a clean cloth out from the stack, not on the large table in the center of the room, but on the desk tucked beneath the second window in the room, on the other side of the fireplace. He dribbles some of the water on his hands first, sighing at the warmth and flexing his fingers, then dampens the cloth and returns to the bed, where Hawke appears lost in thought.  
  
He settles a hand on Hawke’s left shoulder, waits for him to look up.  
  
“Oh, don’t, I can—“  
  
“Let me,” he says. He will take any excuse to touch Hawke now.  
  
Nearly, Hawke protests, then makes a small gesture and subsides. Fenris searches for the most abundant gathering of dirt, then carefully settles the cloth over one edge of his forehead.  
  
“Ow,” Hawke says, shutting his left eye. “Ow ow ow.”  
  
“Hush.”  
  
“It’s _very_ warm,” Hawke tells him, leaning slightly away.  
  
“It won’t clean as well cold.”  
  
Hawke pulls his head back. “It’ll feel better cold.”  
  
“Ah,” Fenris says, hooking one finger beneath Hawke’s chin. “Well enough to be difficult, I see.”  
  
“I’m always difficult,” Hawke says, but resettles himself and shuts his eyes. He grimaces when Fenris rests the cloth against his forehead again, but does not pull away. Instead, he sets one hand against Fenris’s hip, then is still.  
  
Most of the dirt and flaked blood comes off easily. Fenris cleans as gently as he can, but Hawke still frowns, has quick little intakes of breath when he touches a bruise.  
  
When it is all just about gone, he takes a moment to examine Hawke more closely. There is a split in his lip that Fenris did not notice before, and the bruises spread slightly farther than he first assumed; the greenish edges fade to an ashen yellow that is easy to miss on his brown skin. The swelling around his eye could be hiding a crack in the bone. He hopes the healer has already checked. If not, he wonders if Hawke will let him.  
  
“Does it look very bad?”  
  
He nearly denies looking, but what would be the point? He says instead, “I’ve seen better, and I’ve seen worse.”  
  
“That’s a non-answer,” Hawke complains, squinting at him.  
  
So it is. He has seen worse. He does not know what became of them.  
  
With a nonchalance he does not feel, he says, “It looks as though you have been grievously wounded and survived.”  
  
“Story of my life,” Hawke says, rolling his eyes very slightly, as though it pains him, then shuts them again. He is very quiet after that. Fenris suspects his efforts were in vain.  
  
He puts the cloth aside on the dresser, then looks at the cup already on top of it. “What’s this?”  
  
Hawke glances over, makes a face. “Terrible. Toss it out the window. Hand it to me and I’ll do it myself.”  
  
Fenris picks up the cup to examine the contents instead. Liquid. Thick. Greenish. He takes a sip.  
  
It is bitter and sludgy, but not the worst he’s ever tasted. Certainly it’s a marked improvement over many of the offerings at the Hanged Man. The distinctive prickle of elfroot coats his tongue, and he works his mouth, trying to get rid of it.  
  
“Your medicine, I take it.”  
  
“For all the good it actually does me. I find it quite demoralizing. Can’t say it’s good for my state of mind. You should throw it out.”  
  
He sits beside Hawke, holds the cup before him. Hawke leans gingerly against him and eyes the cup with distaste.  
  
“I’m sure I’ve seen you drink worse, with far fewer beneficial effects. Drink it.”  
  
“Ugh.”  
  
“Hawke.”  
  
“I’ve had four rounds of the stuff, per day, for the last week. I think I deserve a break.”  
  
“Hawke.”  
  
Hawke glances at him warily.  
  
“Hawke, please.”  
  
“That,” Hawke says, taking the cup and lifting one finger to point at him, “is cheating.”  
  
Regardless, he lifts the cup and swallows in one smooth unbroken motion. Lowering it again with a grimace, he hands it back to Fenris, empty.  
  
“It seems unfair that you’re both so handsome and so cruel to me.”  
  
Fenris feels himself smile at that, rests his free hand at the small of Hawke’s back. “And you are an inordinate flatterer. What else is new?”  
  
Hawke snorts. “Is that because I called you handsome or cruel?” he says, but he is beginning to grin.  
  
“I already know I am handsome,” he replies loftily, and Hawke laughs. Then keeps laughing, louder and faster, until he has to put his hand over his face.  
  
Fenris sets the cup on the dresser without looking, slides one hand over Hawke’s shoulder, the other on his knee.  
  
“Are you—“  
  
“Fine!” Hawke says, voice high and tight, then he makes a choked sound and says, “I’m sorry.”  
  
It is difficult to tell whether he is laughing or crying; likely even Hawke himself does not know.  
  
“I’m sorry, I just.” He wipes his face, words broken by the jerking of his chest, and says, “I missed you.”  
  
“I’m here,” Fenris says, cups the right side of his face in one hand and leans in to kiss him gently.  
  
Hawke wheezes. For a while, he struggles to draw a breath and hold it; this close, the tears standing in his eyes become evident.  
  
“I know,” Fenris says, lips just beside Hawke’s ear. “I’m here, I’m here.”  
  
Hawke hooks an arm around his waist, pulls him closer, buries his face against Fenris’s neck. Fenris runs a hand through his hair, shorter than usual, rougher in texture. He does this until Hawke calms, rests his hand along Hawke’s jawline, where he did not remember seeing any significant bruising.  
  
“Better?”  
  
“No,” Hawke says immediately. “Have you _seen_ me?”  
  
He sounds so sincerely indignant that Fenris chuckles, then halts. For a moment, he had almost forgotten. It had been as though they had never parted, Hawke to Skyhold while he waited for word before leaving from Crestwood to Kirkwall.  
  
Hawke has either not noticed his pause or not paid it any mind. “I missed you,” he is saying, lips to Fenris’s throat, easy and achingly familiar. “I missed you. I missed you, take a bath, never leave me.”  
  
Fenris shuts his eyes, inhales unsteadily. He had never thought to have this again. “All of that can be arranged.”  
  
Hawke sniffs, turns to kiss his palm and replies, “Bath first, please.”  
  
“If I must.”  
  
“You really do,” Hawke says, with a reasonable attempt at levity. If he is to leave, he should do it now, or he never will.  
  
“We’ll see what Varric can actually do,” he says, sliding off the bed.  
  
Hawke tenses, fingers twitching after him. He pauses, then puts his hand over Hawke’s before he stoops to retrieve his armor, then cloak and pack from the floor.  
  
“Come back soon?”  
  
Hawke’s voice is too tight. Fenris looks up from bundling gauntlets and breastplate together with the scarf. There’s a dread he is unaccustomed to seeing in Hawke’s features, and as soon as he has seen it, Hawke turns his gaze to the floor.  
  
“Hawke,” he says, then stops.  
  
Hawke looks back at him, hollow-eyed, then shakes his head very slightly. So. Another time.  
  
Fenris finishes pulling on his cloak and pack, then slings his sword back over his right shoulder. The armor he can carry, but first, he reaches to brush his hand against Hawke’s cheek.  
  
Startled, Hawke looks up, and for an instant, his emotions are writ large across his face. There is yearning, yes, and fear, yes, but behind it all is something daunting and beautiful and fragile. Hawke shuts his eyes and presses his cheek to Fenris’s palm, mouth twisting.  
  
“Hawke,” Fenris says again, softly, when he can find his tongue. “I will always come back to you.”  
  
“You should go now,” Hawke says, voice hoarse. “Or I’ll try to keep you.”  
  
“Would that be so bad?”  
  
“Oh, it would be awful.” Hawke’s eyes are still shut, and he lifts his hand, as though to grip or remove Fenris’s hand. Then he lowers it again, continues, “Just the two of us, trapped here forever, smelling worse and worse and driving away all visitors. Wretched.”  
  
“If you say so,” Fenris says, slowly pulls his hand away.  
  
Hawke makes a small sound, nearly moves to follow. Fenris picks up his armor, begins walking towards the door, looking over his shoulder at Hawke all the while.  
  
“I’ll be back,” he says.  
  
“Please,” says Hawke, watching him go. It could have been a joke. It is not.  
  
“I will,” he says, then finally turns to the door. He opens it, though it requires use of his elbow, and goes to find Varric.  
  
—  
  
Varric is waiting outside.  
  
“There you are! I was wondering if you’d come out anytime today. Or this week.”  
  
He manages to shut the door behind him. “And you were going to wait that entire time?”  
  
Varric snorts. “Maker, no. It’s cold out here. I was going to give it another ten minutes, then have someone else do it for me. Here, let me show you to your room.”  
  
He ushers Fenris past the templar and the second door, then the third, and stops at the fourth and last. “Here we are. We’re still finishing repairs, so no one’s in that room next to you, and the templars have the one next to Hawke.”  
  
Fenris eyes the one on duty. Quietly, he asks, “Is it safe?”  
  
Just as quietly, Varric says, “Cullen— Remember him? From Kirkwall?”  
  
He does.  
  
Varric continues, “Well, he vouches for them, though how far _that_ goes is up to you. Hawke’s not happy about it, but he has some… moments.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
A bad sign. Hawke has had nightmares before but not to this extent. They have never required outside intervention before. He is not sure how he feels about this particular intervention. He might find it reassuring for any other mage, but Hawke…?  
  
He does not consider it any further. Varric is opening the door and ushering him in  
  
“Well, here you are, home sweet home. Couldn’t find any bodies for ambiance, but that’s what you get on short notice.”  
  
Fenris rolls his eyes but does not comment. He steps inside, still holding all his belongings. Varric follows, and half-shuts the door.  
  
“Some servants should be by with food and hot water. And soap. Lots of soap. Say, ten minutes?”  
  
“Fast,” he says, surveying the room. One table, two chairs, one bed, three windows. Someone has lit the fire already, thought the warmth hasn’t yet spread throughout the room.  
  
“Well, yes. I let them know about as soon as we got here.”  
  
“How prudent of you.”  
  
“I assumed it would be for the best. Good thing, too. You, uh. Stink.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Varric watches him, then says, “How’re you feeling?”  
  
Exhausted. A bit faint. Hungry and worn and unanchored, as though a great weight has been lifted from him, but he no longer knows how to move without the burden.  
  
He says, “With my heart, like most people.”  
  
Varric snorts, hand still on the door handle. “Maker’s breath, you’ve been with Hawke too long. You know what I mean.”  
  
“I do,” he admits. “But I don’t know.”  
  
Stunned, he thinks, might sum it up.  
  
“Well. If you ever need to talk, you know where to find me.”  
  
“Oh, yes. Somewhere in that direction, I presume,” he says, gesturing to the door and rest of the fortress by extension.  
  
“Touché. If you need me, head to the main hall, that one with the stairs and the window. Yes, that window. You’ll find it. If I’m not there, someone will know where to look.”  
  
They stand there for a moment, uncertain, then Varric swings the door wide again and says, “Good to see you again, Fenris.”  
  
“You as well,” he says. They say nothing about the circumstances.  
  
“Want me to shut the door?” Varric says, looking pointedly at his filled hands.  
  
“Please.”  
  
Varric tips him a mockery of a salute before he departs, and swings the door shut behind him. Fenris drops his double-handful of belongings beside the door: armor, pack, and sword. All that he has in the world, here now, on top of this mountain. It could unnerve him, having so little time to accumulate possessions, to _want_ to accumulate possessions, but he decides not to let it. He hardly even knew what to do with a house when he had one.  
  
He looks over the room again. Perhaps the pack could go on the table, sword against the wall, armor… also on the table. Or the chair. Or anywhere else, really; it’s unthinking equipment, nothing more. It’s not as though the furniture has any strong feelings on it, either.  
  
_Furniture._ He hasn’t bothered with it in years.  
  
He crosses the room unsteadily and folds up beside the hearth, putting his face in his hands. He is exhausted, wrung-out, hungry; he needs to eat and wash and rest and see Hawke. Though small decisions, they weigh upon him, and he lets them settle, lets the backs of his hands come to rest against his knees.  
  
In this manner, both he and the first servant startle each other as she enters. He is on his feet as the door opens, and they both stare at each other.  
  
She recovers first, steadying a tray, and bobs a shallow curtsy.  
  
“Good afternoon, ser,” she says, speaking like Carver does at his most belligerent, vowels coming from the back of her throat and the rest of the words coming half-chewed. So this is the unadulterated Fereldan accent.  
  
“Good afternoon,” he says cautiously, eyeing her and the doorway and wondering if anything else will be required of him.  
  
The servant only dips her head and advances into the room, eyeing him back before turning aside to set the tray on the table. Six others follow on her heels, two bearing a partially filled and steaming tub between them, and the others each bearing two large buckets. Four steam, two do not.  
  
They set their burdens down before the fire and depart. The first servant remains, arranging what looks to be food. Two more enter, one with a small basket, another with a modestly-sized wicker hamper. The basket is left with the first servant, the hamper beside the table.  
  
Fenris remains beside the fire as they depart. The remaining servant pries the top off the basket and lays out the contents before turning back to him.  
  
“Soaps, brushes, and scented oils, ser,” she says, indicating each item before pointing to the hamper. “Towels and new clothes. Master Tethras said to let him know if they don’t fit.”  
  
“Thank you,” he says, throat tight. He has never been comfortable with this.  
  
She curtseys again, watching him closely, frowning slightly. She starts to say something else, then shuts her mouth abruptly.  
  
His unease grows. She may only have an impertinent question, but he has not come so far by trusting in the goodwill of strangers. Thankfully, however, she is turning to go.  
  
She is two steps from the door before she whirls back towards him and demands, “You’re him, aren’t you?”  
  
He does not flinch. “Who.”  
  
She makes a quick gesture with one hand. “The Champion’s lover! From Master Tethras’s book!”  
  
_Varric._  
  
“I thought he made you both up, but then _he_ showed up, and now _you’re_ here, and you’re him, aren’t you?”  
  
He is going to _strangle_ Varric next time he sees him. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”  
  
“I’ve got your book. Will you sign it for me?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Please? I wouldn’t ask so, but see, I’ve got Master Tethras and the Champion already, and I thought—“  
  
_“No._ Thank you,” he says, then, “Please go.”  
  
She tsks and rolls her eyes, then retreats, shutting the door somewhat louder than necessary. Her rudeness is almost reassuring: the Inquisition treats its servants well, and Varric needs to train his informants better. Perhaps he can do that with his remaining time on earth.  
  
Fenris checks the door, then draws the latch and goes to examine the meal set out on the table. Braised meat of some sort, most likely lamb or goat. Root vegetables, roasted. More root vegetables, mashed. Gravy. Bread. A generous wedge of cheese.  
  
He falls to, and gladly. He doubts he’s had better in recent memory, but he hardly tastes it. Wiping his hands, he turns to examine the tub and the water. Likely he should have poured the water first, waited for it to cool as he ate. Just as likely it wouldn’t have made a difference. He sighs.  
  
It suddenly seems a momentous process, to be clean. Step by step, then.  
  
He pours the water and shucks off his cloak, sheds the rest of his clothing layer by layer. Aveline had warned him well about the cold, and her advice had made his journey almost tolerable, but he hopes to go no further south than this. Heavy wool as the topmost, then three progressively lighter layers going down. Serviceable linen beneath. All of it in varying degrees of worn and travel-stained.  
  
He retrieves the soap and tests the water. Still almost too hot for comfort. He pours in half a bucket of the cold water, then gets in regardless.  
  
The heat is stupefying, and painful at first. His knee throbs from a fall in the morning, and his back and shoulders ache from several days of carrying a heavier pack than he is used to. He settles all the way in, and waits.  
  
The prickling resolves into a pleasant numbness, and he exhales. His hands tingle, and he holds them above the surface of the water, flexes and unflexes. It is still somewhat difficult to breathe, but the steam helps. He lowers his face nearly to the surface of the water for a moment, to enjoy unencumbered breathing, then dips his whole head under.  
  
When he surfaces again, he sets to work scrubbing away grit and sea spray and dirt from nearly a month of ceaseless travel. Directly across the Waking Sea to a Fereldan port in Highever, then two weeks of walking or bartering for rides to the Inquisition keep. What else was he to do after that letter? Brevity from Varric had never been a good sign.  
  
But he is here now. With any luck, it will not have been one long, exhausting, torturous dream. His fingers catch hard on a matted snarl in his hair, and he hisses. It is too fine, and it tangles too easily, and he should have let Aveline cut it before his departure, it would have saved him at least some of the trouble of doing it now.  
  
“One thing at a time,” he says slowly, reminding himself. He is staring past the rim of the tub, because he has no desire to see his own face staring back up at him out of the water.  
  
He sets to work scrubbing some of the more stubborn grit from his eyes, then rinses his face. He will finish washing, cut his hair, and see Hawke. There is nothing more that can be done.  
  
\---  
  
The clothes fit, or at least he thinks they do, but he still feels like a child’s toy, overstuffed and uncomfortably bulky. He decides to leave his cloak behind, as the walk is short, but expects to regret it. Why anyone would choose to make a life somewhere with regular snowfall is beyond him.  
  
He shivers once as he submits himself again to the cold, then exchanges a wary glance with the templar outside. Neither of them speak. So long as the templar is aware of whom he is guarding, then Fenris supposes his own allegiance is clear enough.  
  
He reaches Hawke’s door and doesn’t dwell on it further. He knocks once, then opens the door.  
  
Hawke looks up from where he is seated at the table, fiddling with medical detritus.  
  
_“There_ you are,” he says, and it is still a shock, both his appearance and to see him at all. He is standing now, hand braced on the table.  
  
Fenris shuts the door, kicking off his wretched stolen boots as his fingers search for the latch.  
  
“Don’t bother,” Hawke says, expression dimming, then makes a quick dismissive gesture before he can ask. “Don’t worry about it.”  
  
He won’t. For now.  
  
There is time enough to worry later.  
  
He is crossing the room, and Hawke does not forestall him this time, pulls him close as soon as he is in range instead.  
  
“Oh! You’re cold,” Hawke says, but is bowing into him anyway, nose and mouth pressing against his neck, arm tight around his back. “But you smell much better.”  
  
“I always tell people it was your way with words that won me to your side.”  
  
Hawke laughs, then kisses his neck, and he is holding Hawke as tightly as he dares. There are almost certainly other injuries he cannot see, in addition to the unsteadiness that he can feel as a fine tremor running against his chest.  
  
“Sit,” he says, though he does not let go of Hawke, does not think he could bear to. “Please sit.”  
  
“I don’t want to sit,” Hawke says, mulish.  
  
“You’re shaking.”  
  
“I’ve had a very exciting day.”  
  
“I’ve had a very tiring one, and would like to sit.”  
  
Hawke only sighs and tightens his hold. Stubborn, impossible man. Fenris takes an experimental step forward, and after a moment, Hawke takes a small step back, but does not loosen his arm.  
  
After several of these steps, he lifts his head and says, “Are we dancing?”  
  
“No,” Fenris says, trying to gauge the remaining distance to the bed. “Sitting.”  
  
“Sounds boring.”  
  
“Try not to be contrary, for once.”  
  
Hawke snorts. “A nice sentiment from you,” he says, but his tone is just as fond. He starts. “There it is.”  
  
_“Sit,”_ Fenris tells him and for a wonder, he does, though he keeps his hand on Fenris’s side, looking up at him as though in a daze.  
  
Then he makes a face and says, “You’ve done that _thing_ with your hair again, and now I can’t fix it for you.”  
  
Fenris rolls his eyes. The cut is uneven, perhaps, and his belt-knife possibly in need of sharpening but it is serviceable. “It’s not that bad.”  
  
“It’s bad enough.”  
  
“So don’t look,” he says, and does not mean it.  
  
“I could look at you for the rest of my life,” Hawke says softly, then cocks his head. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you in purple, though. Not yours, is it?”  
  
“Borrowed, I think,” Fenris says, examining a sleeve. “It’s a bit large. I have no idea who Varric imposed upon for this.”  
  
“It’s a good color on you,” Hawke tells him, hand coming up.  
  
Fenris leans down so Hawke can brush his cheek, then further in to kiss him lightly.  
  
“You should rest,” he says, his own hands settling on Hawke’s shoulders as he straightens.  
  
“I’ve been resting all month and it’s incredibly boring. Help me sneak out and let’s go to the tavern, shall we?”  
  
He laughs. “No.”  
  
Hawke grimaces. “You’re no fun.”  
  
“I have never been fun. And I need rest, even if you don’t.” He adds, “The next trade caravan wasn’t coming up until next week. I had to walk up this entire damned mountain.”  
  
He is not complaining, precisely. It’s just a statement of fact.  
  
Hawke laughs at him anyway. “I’ll do you one better,” he says, sliding back on the bed, rucking the covers up behind him. After a moment, he lies down close to the wall, then pats the empty space next to him. A familiar gesture, but made tentative and strange by the tightness around his eyes, the set of his mouth. A tenuous thing, this moment.  
  
Fenris hesitates, he wants—has wanted—this so badly, and regrets it for the stricken look that crosses Hawke’s face.  
  
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, and it is a feeble explanation, but Hawke’s expression clears.  
  
“I’m not sure you can, right now.”  
  
Fenris shakes his head, but settles in, moving slow and careful until Hawke rolls fully to his side and spreads his arm wide. At this, he gives up on subtlety, lies down and buries his face in Hawke’s chest. He is so thin. But here.  
  
He is here and real and alive.  
  
It is all too much, very suddenly. He pulls as close to Hawke as he can, clings to any part of him he can reach, and, appallingly, begins to weep. Hawke flinches, gasping.  
  
“I was wrong! Gentle! Please, Fen, it hurts all over—“  
  
“I’m sorry,” he manages, loosening his grip, head still bowed into Hawke’s chest. “I didn’t—“  
  
“Maker, no, I know, I thought—“  
  
“You don’t understand, I—“  
  
“I thought I’d never see you again and—“  
  
“I know,” he says, looking up, hands curling over Hawke’s shoulders. His eyes sting and his face is wet, but Hawke is here. “I know.”  
  
One day, he thinks, Hawke will have to tell him exactly what transpired. But it does not have to be today. He scrubs his face with the back of one absurdly thick sleeve, and says, “Where are you hurt?”  
  
“Well, I’ve got,” Hawke begins, then swallows hard, continues. “I’ve got a little something on my arm.”  
  
_“Hawke.”_  
  
“Everywhere,” Hawke says, still trying for wry and offhanded. He shuts his eyes, and his tone changes. “Everywhere hurts.”  
  
Slowly, waiting for protest, Fenris reaches up to touch all the unmarked areas of Hawke’s face: his jawline, the corners of his mouth, the new hollow of his left cheek.  
  
Hawke winces when his fingers wander too close to the edge of a scab. “Leave that alone.”  
  
He complies, left hand cupping the back of Hawke’s neck, right settling back to his shoulder. “Never again, Hawke,” he says, words tight. “I go where you go, until the end of our days.”  
  
Hawke regards him with something like alarm, but he does not recant. Hawke opens his mouth, shuts it again, then begins, with a very different light in his eyes, “Even—“  
  
“Don’t say it,” Fenris warns him.  
  
“But what about—“  
  
“Don’t you dare.”  
  
“So if I have to take a piss—“  
  
“Do you never stop talking?” he says, but it is softly, and he is shifting towards Hawke, who pulls him closer, gaze fixed on his.  
  
“It’s just that famous Fereldan hospitality,” Hawke assures him, then leans in to kiss his forehead, the bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth.  
  
He turns his head to meet Hawke, then says dryly, “This too?”  
  
“Of course,” Hawke says, worn thin yet grinning, then kisses him again, careful and slow. “Welcome to Skyhold.”  
  
Fenris takes his face between both hands and gently strokes one thumb along Hawke’s cheek, mindful of bruises and stubble.  
  
“I’m home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *For those looking for the joke: ‘dexter’ (root for ‘dexterous’) means ‘right’ in Latin (the base of Tevene), and ‘sinister’ is ‘left.’
> 
> ——
> 
> Whew! I started this fic in early 2016, and it has been a long journey! I like to call it the spiritual predecessor to my main HxH fic ([available here if you like that sort of thing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16380536/chapters/38337905)), since they run along the same themes of trauma and healing, but I daresay this one’s a little more grim. I still like it, and I’m very pleased to be able to share it now.


	2. Chapter 2

It should be simple, but it is not. Too much has transpired between now and when they parted, and Fenris has much to learn.

The first thing he learns is that Hawke has resumed weeping in his sleep. It is as it was: unpredictable and worrisome. The second thing he learns is that Hawke is very, very afraid. He guesses this, had some idea of the shape of it upon his arrival, but had no clue as to the depth. He learns quickly.

The evening of his arrival, he is not sure if Hawke sleeps. What he does know is that in the dead of night, he is forcibly awoken by an arm thrown across his chest. He grapples it, pins it to the bed with both hands as he searches wildly for his attacker. His heart makes a strange, sideways lurch when he recognizes his assailant.

“Hawke,” he says, voice still rough with sleep and alarm.

Hawke does not look at him and does not answer, only struggling to reclaim his arm and making a horrible clotted sound all the while. It is not a difficult one to identify: an unhappy meeting of the fear of being overheard and a terror too great to be borne in silence.

Fenris’s hands are beginning to prickle, lyrium in his skin lighting slowly. _“Hawke,”_ he says again, louder.

Hawke’s eyes meet his, for an instant. Then a wall comes to meet him and he is flung back, marks flaring to life where the magic has touched him. He is weightless for a sickening moment, then hits the floor.

His arms are covering his head as he slides, and his back hits what feels like a forest of poles, everything clattering around and above him. He rolls to his front, gasping, and the uncertain shadowy forest resolves itself into chair and table legs in the middle of the room, now somewhat displaced. He sits up, is not sure where to turn, what he can fight. The lyrium took some of the force from the blow; he has seen Hawke employ the same tactic to great effect on his adversaries, hurling them dozens of paces away.

But he is no foe. Hawke has never— Even in his previous nightmares, he has never—

The door is flung open. He is coming to his feet when two men enter, carrying weaponry though still in their undershirts, only the insignia on their shields proclaiming them templars. When the shadows grow strange, he turns to see Hawke upright in bed with a fistful of fire, eyes wild.

“Stand _down,_ Champion!” one of the templars calls, but the title is derisive, hardly even a courtesy.

Bad. Very bad. Hawke has never backed down from a fight, is even now swinging both feet to the floor already, and the templars are settling into a familiar stance.

“Hold!” Fenris shouts, one hand on the table. He can vault it, neutralize the templars first, then see to Hawke, but they pay him no mind.

When the smite blasts past him, he is unprepared, nearly drops to the floor again. He had forgotten the effect the templars’ abilities had even on him. The enchantments in the lyrium disperse some of the effect even as they make him susceptible to it, and it still feels like a physical blow. 

Hawke catches the brunt of it. All the breath is driven from him as he collapses back to the bed, and the fire cupped in his palm dissipates. His chest heaves. It sounds as though the air rattles in his throat and goes no further.

The templars relax.

“Tidy,” one says to the other, lowering his sword.

“For once,” the other templar agrees, jostling his shoulder before glancing at Fenris. “Ser?”

Fenris does not answer, steadying himself on the table. He could cross it in a moment. He doubts they know it.

“Ser! Are you unharmed?”

_“Leave,”_ he snarls, in no mood to be polite.

The templars mutter to each other. Rude things, no doubt. Or at least, their best attempts at it. He’s heard worse. Much, much worse. It does not affect him now. It should not.

The door slams shut, and Hawke is sobbing, thin and breathless. He should stand, go to Hawke’s side, see if he took any harm.

Instead, he pulls out a chair and sits at the table. He is still dazed, heart still hammering inside his chest. His back hurts, his markings ache, and the room is suddenly colder. The banked fire flickers, and he looks up to find that the door has been left ajar. That, he supposes, he can deal with.

He gets up slowly and shuts the door, tests the handle to make sure it will not open again of its own accord. The firelight is dim and his own shadow is in the way, but he can still see that the lock is absent, wood where it should be slightly discolored. When he runs his fingers over it, the wood is rough, most likely a new addition to fill in the space.

He turns from it, and makes his way to Hawke’s bedside. Hawke is sobbing still, a miserable breathless sound, shuddering with it. Fenris reaches to steady him, places a hand to his chest, and Hawke jerks violently away, as though from hot iron. Then he covers his face and turns aside.

Fenris sits on the edge of the bed, elbows to knees, head to hands, and waits. He is too tired to get up and pace. He assumes he is not distraught enough to need it. The truth of it is escaping him, so he shuts his eyes and doesn’t consider it any further.

He has no idea how much time passes, only that it is still dark and his stomach is still turning when he realizes it is quiet again. It seems to take just as long before Hawke says, voice hushed and rough, “Fenris?”

He turns. Hawke is staring at the ceiling, eyes open but not seeing, lying so still he could be dead. It is not a comfortable thought. He nearly reaches to touch Hawke again before he thinks better of it, folds his hands together.

“I am here,” he offers.

“I’m sorry.”

He does not trust himself to speak.

“I know,” he says at last. 

Hawke turns his face towards the wall. “Did I hurt you?”

Not very much. “Why?”

“Varric found you a room, right? Maybe you should stay there.”

Perhaps. But there is a familiar wildness in Hawke’s eyes and tone, and he does not want to. He has done unwise things for Hawke before. He has no intention of stopping now.

“I would rather not leave you alone.”

Hawke looks at him, eyes bright and mouth tight with pain. “Sorry,” he says, then swallows hard, shutting his eyes and clenching his jaw. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” Fenris says softly. To be apologized to after a wayward spell is still a novelty, he decides.

“For— You know. Maker, don’t do this to me,” Hawke says, voice small and tight. He puts his hand over his eyes again. “I was scared. I’m sorry. I thought maybe you weren’t really here.”

“Did you see me? When you were,” Fenris hesitates, then settles on, “lost?”

“All the time.”

“What did you see?” Something he wanted? Something to give him pause? Something he feared?

Hawke does not answer, but his mouth is trembling.

“Hawke?”

“Can you not ask me that?”

“I won’t,” Fenris says, cannot leave it at that. “Are you well? Does this happen often?”

“No,” Hawke says, then, “Not so much anymore. Only sometimes.”

He sighs, then gently touches the back of Hawke’s hand, still over his eyes. Hawke starts, but lets him take his hand, watches him do it, gaze wide and wary. Fenris crosses Hawke’s hand over his chest, then settles his own over it.

“I’m here.”

“That’s good,” Hawke says, then shuts his eyes again and laughs. There is no joy in it. “Me too. Still here. Still breathing.”

Fenris gets back into the bed, draws up the covers again. Hawke rolls to his side, moving as though even that exhausts him. All the lines in his face are drawn tight and fearful, and he won’t look up.

Fenris shifts closer and gently presses his lips against Hawke’s hair. He is too warm. Hawke makes a small sound of protest, but does not move away. It may just be that he is too tired to try.

“I miss my mother,” Hawke says, edges of his words softening and running together. Exhaustion, Fenris assumes. Exhaustion, pain, and grief. All too familiar.

“I know.”

“My sister. My father. My brother. Is Carver all right? Is he safe?”

“He was going back to the Wardens, last I heard,” Fenris says, speaking slow and even. Aveline had looked so tired, reading that letter. He hadn’t even bothered. “He was. Upset.”

“I bet he was. Did you see him? How is he?” Hawke does not wait for an answer, but continues, “Is he doing well? He looked better last time I saw him. Did Varric tell you what we found out about the Wardens? Good thing he avoided that whole mess.”

“I heard a bit,” he says, but Hawke is still going on, inching closer as he does.

“Is Aveline angry with me? I owe her. What do you think would be a good thank you? Would she like a nice fruit basket? Do you think that’s enough?”

Fenris considers, says quietly, “Lift your head,” and slides his arm beneath when Hawke complies. Hawke shudders, makes a sound suspiciously like a sob, then rests his face against Fenris’s throat. He says something else, but Fenris is not listening.

Aveline had allowed him into her home to wait for Hawke. Then insisted he stay after the first letter from Varric, when he would have gone to do… He does not know what he would have done. All of his ideas would have been ill-advised. 

So instead he had gone about her home like a wounded animal, dragging all his hurt and anger behind him. For the most part, she had let him. Hadn’t told him it would be better one day, but hadn’t stopped Donnic from trying either.

He also owes her a great debt. He does not think Aveline would want a fruit basket, but she would understand the gesture. For Donnic, he suspects the opposite.

Hawke is still speaking, has been speaking all this time, was not listening for an answer. He is back to Carver now.

“I miss him,” he says, face damp and hot against Fenris’s throat. “He is the most obnoxious person I know, and I miss him so much.”

“He grows on you,” Fenris says politely, carefully winds one hand through Hawke’s hair. Carver can be tolerable at times. They are capable of being civil to each other, for Hawke’s sake.

“I’d like to see him again.”

“You will,” he says, and hopes it will be true.

—

Fenris asks for a pallet to set near the hearth. He has already woken twice to Hawke joining him, sweat-drenched and unsteady, whispering, “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” It takes him hours to calm. Fenris asks for more blankets and readjusts to sleeping in daylight. There is a fear and a need in Hawke that could swallow him whole. He does not wish for this, so he does his best not to let it.

It helps to have had practice. Hawke has lain near-death before, after his duel with the arishok. Perhaps he should be used to this.

The thought interrupts him during a hand of Diamondback with Varric, a memory of Hawke nearly brought to his knees, clutching the gaping wound in his belly. He should have died of it, yet killed the arishok instead, saved a city. Did he stagger the same way through the Fade? Did he cling to his staff the same way, like it was the only thing keeping him standing?

Varric taps the table beside his hand. “Broody. You in or you fold?”

“All in,” he says, and shoves his collection of pebbles towards the center of the table. He doesn’t even remember what cards he’s holding.

He loses, as Varric puts it, ‘magnificently.’

“Magnificent for me, anyway,” Varric says, grinning. “Again?”

His debt has already quadrupled since Kirkwall. “I am sure you’re cheating.”

“Me? _Never,”_ Varric replies, one hand to his chest, the very picture of affront. At least some things have stayed the same.

He excuses himself and makes his way back to the room overlooking the garden.

Hawke is practicing shuffling one-handed when he returns. Cards tilt out in all directions; Hawke has already lost some, but perseveres.

Fenris shuts the door. “Have you considered using less cards for a while?”

“Well, where’s the fun in that,” Hawke replies, cards spilling from his hand. “Shit!”

“My point stands.”

“But I am sitting,” Hawke points out, gathering up the cards.

“I’ve heard better,” he says, turning back to make sure the door is truly shut, but Hawke has already seen his smile.

“You could also sit,” Hawke says.

He has no real reason to, but pushes a stray card aside to perch on the edge of the table regardless. He reconsiders and slides the card towards Hawke.

“Thank you,” Hawke says with dignity, retrieving the card and stacking it with the rest. He gathers them in hand and taps the deck against the table. “Play me?”

“I already owe Varric a great deal of money.”

“Come on, it’ll be easy,” he says, grinning lopsidedly. “I’m only half as good at cards as I used to be.”

Fenris regards him with a fond and tired dismay. “Don’t lie.”

“Hush, you. Indulge me, why don’t you? I lost an arm, you know. A whole—“

“Hawke,” he says, not sure of the warning until Hawke folds, choking on the end of his own sentence, throat locked and the words trying to claw themselves out.

“Hawke!” he says again, lunging from the table to clutch at him, too late, too slow. 

Hawke makes a strangled sound in answer, left arm wrapped around himself. Fenris pulls him closer, mindful of his shoulders, and remembers not to panic. He is alarmed, but it is manageable. Hawke is hurt and tired. They are both tired. This is only one of the many days they have lying before them.

Hawke is alive. They are together. They are safe. As far as he can tell, this will remain true for the foreseeable future. This is manageable. He will manage it. Perhaps he could not after the death of Hawke’s mother, still uncertain and afraid; perhaps he tried as the flames of Kirkwall vanished in the distance, but ineffectually, still reeling from the chaos run rampant in the streets and the enormity of his decision.

(Much less a decision than a realization: He will choose Hawke again and again, regardless of consequence.)

But he has learned since then.

“Hawke,” he says, soft and sure, and tries to put all he knows in the name. Warm-hearted, glib-tongued, light-handed. Careless and principled. Relentless. Forgiving. And gentle. Gentle. _Gentle._

He puts one hand on Hawke’s shoulder, cradles Hawke’s head closer with the other. “I’m here.”

“Sorry,” Hawke says, weeping against his stomach, face pressed to his shirt.

“For what?”

Hawke shakes his head, then says, choking, “It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

“You had a plan?”

Hawke is sobbing in earnest now, trying to speak despite it and having little success. Pieces of words make it through, but remain incoherent. Something about finding Carver. Or Corypheus. Or both. Taking care of one or the other of them. Retiring. A simple plan. Unfortunate that things rarely remain simple when Hawke gets involved.

“Of course,” he says quietly, hands steady as he holds Hawke close.

Hawke draws in a ragged breath and repeats, “Simple. It’d be simple.”

“If only,” Fenris says without thinking, then regrets it immediately.

Hawke laughs, though. Then slumps further against Fenris like a puppet whose strings have been cut. His body is still fighting an infection, the second one according to the healer. He hasn’t been sleeping well.

“Come lie down with me.”

“Can’t,” Hawke says, thick and miserable.

“You can.”

“It’s far.”

“Stand first. The rest will follow.”

_“Can’t,”_ Hawke says again, then coughs, swallows, and shakes his head. “That’s pathetic. I know. I _know,_ but I _can’t.”_

He carefully detaches Hawke, who turns up to him with confusion and alarm, then kneels, hands on Hawke’s knees. Hawke blinks hard, and looks aside.

“Hawke,” he says, soft as he can. “Hawke, look at me.”

“Why?”

“I’d like to see you.”

Hawke sniffs and wipes his nose, drawn tight as a bowstring. “You’re seeing me.”

“I would like to see your face.” He waits, then adds, “Please.”

Reluctantly, Hawke turns back, but he keeps his eyes downcast. He is still bruised, still hollow-cheeked, still beaten all over. Fenris tries to find one of the few places it will not hurt him to be touched, cups Hawke’s jaw in one hand.

Quietly, he says, “I think no less of you.”

“You’re going to make me cry again,” Hawke tells him.

“I am prepared for the consequences.”

Hawke is looking away, eyes lidded, lashes still wet. “You talk so nicely, but you’re really very impolite.”

“A character flaw, I’m afraid,” he says, settling both hands on Hawke’s knees again. “And are you going to stay here for the rest of the night?”

“Maybe.”

He stands, dusting himself off. “Your neck will be sore.”

“And?”

“I will have to listen to you complain.”

“Something to do.”

“Would you like me to drag you,” he says dryly, leaning against the table.

He would not, unless it truly came to it, but Hawke looks up at that and says, grim and fierce, “I’d like to see you try.”

Absurdly, his heart lightens. If Hawke has the spirit for that, then things cannot be so bad. He reaches to touch Hawke again, his face, his shoulder, his hand, then thinks better of it

He folds his arms. “I’ll get a blanket.”

“Don’t,” Hawke says, sounding only tired again, looking back down at the floor. “Don’t. I’ll get up.”

Fenris steps out of his path, but he stays where he is a while longer, only breathing. Then he sets his hand on the table and pushes himself to his feet. 

He walks heavy beneath the weight of his fears and sorrows, and when he reaches the bed, it is less a settle than a collapse.

Fenris follows him to the bed. “No room for me then?”

Hawke only eyes him, then curls closer to the edge of the mattress. That is answer enough.

He climbs over Hawke to settle against his back, leaning to retrieve the covers so he can draw them up to just below Hawke’s shoulder.

“Lift your head,” he says, and slides his arm beneath when Hawke obliges. He drapes his other arm over Hawke’s side, and presses close.

After a while, Hawke shifts to hold Fenris’s right hand. 

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “It just hurts. All the time.”

“I know.”

“It hurts so much.” He sounds smaller than he ever has.

“I know, Hawke.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Fenris says, eyes shut, intent on the feel of Hawke soft and warm against him. He took no offense, but it seems Hawke feels it is important to say. 

“I don’t mean to burden you—“

“Shh.” A sound he is becoming more accustomed to making, these past few years. “I prefer that you speak to me.”

Hawke shifts. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he says when he stills.

Fenris readjusts, pulls Hawke firmly against him. “If you don’t, Hawke, then trust that I do.”

“Have mercy,” Hawke says piteously. “I’m too feeble for wordplay.”

“More like a short dialogue than a whole play—“

_“Fenris.”_

“Garrett,” he replies, nonplussed, then kisses the back of Hawke’s head. “If you’d rather a monologue, I will listen.”

“No,” Hawke says immediately.

“Not only now,” he says, and it sounds thin and useless, even to him.

Hawke does not reply, turns just enough that their bodies no longer touch. This stretches his right arm slightly farther than is comfortable, so he pulls close again, puts his hand over Hawke’s when he tries to withdraw it.

“Please speak to me,” he says, and wishes he does not sound so desperate.

The silence thickens until it becomes like a physical weight. Hawke tries to pull his hand away again, and Fenris lets him, but keeps his arm where it is.

“When I can,” Hawke says finally, quietly. “About what I can.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Hawke stills, breathing gone harsh, most likely from the fever.

“What is it?”

For all the many, many, many things Hawke can and will say, at the slightest provocation, there are just as many he holds his peace on. It appears he is still deciding which this one is.

“Nothing. It’s nothing,” he says, then brings his hand up to tuck Fenris’s left forearm closer against his chest, does not let go. “I just. I missed you.”

—

As Hawke will not speak of it, Fenris instead pries the story out of Varric in bits and pieces. The Wardens, he knew something of already. But he has heard next to nothing of the battle at Adamant. Or of the descent into the Fade.

Or Nightmare.

He likes to think of himself as prudent. The Fade is a place of temptation and horror. He has seen it once already, and gained nothing from it.

But he could find a way back. It would be a difficult undertaking, one that would likely cost a great deal in resources, bartered favors, and time. He may require assistance from several unsavory characters. His dignity may not return intact. _He_ may not return intact.

There is a great deal he would give for one chance at the creature that haunts Hawke’s sleep.

“He’d be better if he would just _rest,”_ one healer tells him in an undertone by the door. Hawke has been balking that entire afternoon, only letting the healers touch him when he is cornered and then with great protest. 

It takes him a moment to find his words; Varric had told him to leave early in the procedure, and he had not. “He’s trying.”

And Hawke is, in his own scattershot fashion. Wheedling stories from anyone who comes near enough to ask. Trying to persuade the more amenable of his attendants to bring him something stronger than watered-down wine. Talking in loosely connected circles until he can barely keep his eyes open. He refuses to sleep until he must.

He is afraid of dreaming.

“I have no idea if it’s dead or not,” Varric says one day, head propped on one hand. He has a stack of unfinished letters, candle lit before him and sealing wax splotched on the table beside it. “I don’t think Hawke knows either, and I don’t want to ask him.”

“I see.”

“No,” Varric says, unusually sharp. “I don’t think you do. You didn’t see him when we first got him back. If we’d done that to some poor bastard in a nowhere back alley in Kirkwall, I would’ve cut his throat.”

“A good thing you _didn’t,”_ Fenris snaps at him, one hand going flat to the table.

“Andraste’s flaming ashes, I never said I would have done it to Hawke!” Varric snaps back, then sighs and rubs both hands over his face. “Maker. It was bad, Elf. It was real bad.”

He can only imagine. Regrettably, his imagination is quite good.

“Do you…” he begins, then trails off. He is not experienced at starting this conversation.

“No, I don’t want to talk about it.”

That is a relief. He does not think he would have wanted to hear about it. Most likely Varric knew this already.

Varric sighs, then wipes ink from his pen and puts a weight on his papers to keep them from blowing away. “You know they wanted Hawke to head this Inquisition of theirs at first? That’s what Cassandra was tracking me down for. She was convinced I knew where he was.”

“She wasn’t far wrong.”

“No, and that’s the worst part. But there was no way I’d let Hawke get caught up in this.”

Fenris raises his eyebrows.

“I wouldn’t! This isn’t a problem one man can fix! This is the kind of problem that chews people up and spits out the pieces. And it doesn’t matter how many stories get told and retold and exaggerated over and over again: _he’s just one man.”_

He rather thought that was the point of the stories, but holds his peace.

“Besides, they’ve gotten enough from him. That’s what I told her, then I went and roped him into this mess again. Just look at him.”

Varric is wiping his eyes, then brings his fingers together to pinch the bridge of his nose, as though that had been what he meant to do all along.

“Sorry,” he says. “Getting weepy in my old age, I guess.”

“I thought you were doing very well, for a specimen of the Exalted Age,” Fenris says, shifting in his chair, sitting first far to the front, then far to the back. Neither alleviates his discomfort. Maybe if he tries sitting towards the right?

“Ha ha, very funny,” Varric says, then sniffs. Fenris pretends not to have heard and settles his elbows on the armrests, then looks aside.

“Listen,” Varric says, recovering himself. “You need anything, you come to me. Equipment, clothes, favors, whatever.”

Fenris glances up again sharply. After a moment, he manages, “That’s very generous of you.”

“Yeah, well. What are friends for?”

He does not answer immediately but watches Varric, who is toying with one of his seals.

“Thank you,” he says at last, looking at his hands. “I appreciate it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Varric says, lifting the weight off his papers. “Now scram, would you? I’ve got work to do.”

It’s a transparent ruse, but he scoffs anyway as he pushes his chair back and gets to his feet. “You? Work? Will wonders never cease.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get back to me when you have the Merchants Guild and a very scary spymaster breathing down your neck.”

“And your editor?”

Varric snorts. “Fuck’im.”

“I’ll leave that to you,” he says, folding his cloak over his arm before he departs.

Varric’s laughter follows him down the hall, spacious, richly furnished, and nothing at all like their usual haunts in Kirkwall. The absence does not strike him with as much force as it used to. Perhaps he is acclimating.

It is not an unpleasant thought.

—

His armor is clean, blades sharpened and oiled, most perishables and a respectable amount of crumbs cleaned out of his packs. He has very little to do, but he prefers to stay near when Hawke is sleeping.

So he waits. 

Varric has shown him both the library and the practice yard. He has only availed himself of the first, and found the selection haphazard, many books damaged, presumably by the flight from Haven. There are histories, though, as well as several biographies, of which he has borrowed a handful, but they are in the other room.

No matter. He is practiced at waiting by a fire. The screen is drawn, so he only adjusts the edges and sits by the hearth.

Something startles him back to wakefulness, though he does not remember falling asleep. He checks the fire; his lapse cannot have been so long. When something rustles behind him again, he straightens, still listening, then stands.

Hawke is twitching, limbs caught in abortive half-motions, face drawn tight and sweat beading at his temples. Fenris sets a hand on his chest, but only lightly. Presence, and not pressure, has worked well for Hawke.

Sometimes he will calm, ease back into sleep. More often, he wakes at the touch. He wakes today, but does not pull away immediately.

“Oh,” he says, voice unsteady, eyes red. “You’re— Oh good. That’s good.”

“You’re safe,” Fenris says, thumb tracing a slow arc over his chest. “I’m here. No harm will come to you while I live.”

“Don’t say that,” Hawke says, shuddering. He is struggling to sit up. As his feet touch the floor, he hunches over, shoulders heaving. “I’m going to be sick.”

There is a basin by the dresser, nominally for medical use. Fenris doesn’t bother removing the loose scraps of bandaging from the bottom before handing it to Hawke, who promptly brings up what looks to be everything he has eaten that day, along with the acrid smell of bile.

When he reaches to rest a hand on Hawke’s back, Hawke flinches away from him, then retches again. Fenris hesitates, then goes to get a cup of water. 

Hawke is still when he returns, head hanging, eyes shut. Then he works his mouth and spits, lifting his hand to wipe his nose.

“I brought you water,” Fenris says, offering the cup.

Hawke does not look up. “Please go.”

“Rinse your mouth at least,” he says, stepping closer, but Hawke only shakes his head once, motion small and tight.

“It’s fine,” Hawke says thickly. “Go. Please.”

Carefully, he reaches for Hawke’s shoulder with his free hand, and Hawke grits his teeth and shrinks into himself, withdrawing as much as he can without actually having to move.

“Hawke?”

“Please,” Hawke says, teeth still clenched, voice raw with desperation. “Please don’t make me beg.”

Fenris stays where he is, hand outstretched. He should leave, because Hawke asked him to. He should not leave Hawke alone in this condition. Hawke has done both for him numerous times. 

_“Go,”_ Hawke says, so quietly it could be a whisper. There is no gentleness in it.

Fenris sets the cup down on the dresser. He goes.

He walks, not caring where. The gardens are now almost familiar. Some guards no longer eye him warily on the ramparts. He is nearly used to the air here, no longer feels as lightheaded as he used to.

A set of stairs brings him down on the other side of Skyhold, where he has not ventured before. He nearly goes back up to the ramparts at a strange high animal noise and the sound of something large moving, then a balding man leads a horse from the building in front of him. The stables, then. That would explain the smell. He still has no love for horses, and next to no familiarity with them besides.

He sits and puts his hands before his face, fingers pressing alongside the bridge of his nose. It is for the smell, and not because he walked away from Hawke as he has many times before. Not because Hawke needs something that he does not know how to give, though he wants to. Not because the depth of his want could frighten him, if he let it.

When he begins to notice the numbness in his hands, he breathes on them, chafes them together. Foolish to come out here without a cloak. Supposedly it’s a mild day, at the turn of the season where winter eases into spring, but he puts no stock in a Fereldan’s assessment of the weather. It’s cold, and his hands and face hurt. Every detail past that is unnecessary.

The cold is becoming more apparent by the moment. He has no desire to go to great hall, with its strangers passing by at every moment and where Varric may engage him in conversation.

There is a tavern. He puts his head back in his hands; he does not want to return to Hawke drunk. But there was a small room off the garden, and perhaps there are passageways that are less populated. He could try to find them. What was it Hawke had said? ‘Something to do, at least.’

“Things used to be simple,” he says mournfully, then stands, stamping his feet and chafing his upper arms. There is nothing to be gained by sitting here. He may as well find somewhere warm.

—

He returns to Hawke’s room and knocks. When there is no response, he opens the door.  
  
Hawke has not moved except to fold so his head is nearly to his knees, basin overturned on the floor by his feet. Fenris can feel his throat tighten with guilt. It is too unwieldy to manage one-handed. He should have known.  
  
He shuts the door behind him. Quietly, he says, “At least lie down, Hawke.”  
  
“I hate this bed,” Hawke replies, muffled.  
  
Fenris stands by the door, considering. Then he crosses the room slowly. The smell of sickness grows stronger as he approaches, stepping well clear of the mess. When he looks into the cup of water he left on the dresser, the cup is still full.  
  
He rights the basin, then picks up the cup.  
  
“Here,” he says, offering it again, and Hawke does not look up. “Rinse your mouth, at least.”  
  
Hawke hardly looks up at that, but after a moment, he lifts his hand slowly. Fenris presses the cup into his hand, folding his fingers around it when he does not grip.  
  
“Hold it.”  
  
He steps around Hawke to the foot of the bed, pulls the topmost blanket free. To his right, he can see Hawke lean over and spit.

“Come here,” he says, reaching to Hawke and beckoning. “Watch your feet.”

Hawke moves sluggish and heavy, one limb at a time, head still bowed and breathing as though it pains him. He puts a hand on on Hawke’s left shoulder, other hand still holding the blanket, and moves so he is standing before Hawke, who leans to rest his head against Fenris’s stomach. He slides his hand to the back of Hawke’s neck, fingers raking through the uneven fringe of his hair.

After a while, he says, “Do you have socks?”

Hawke makes a small dismissive noise, doesn’t move. When Fenris begins settling the blanket over his shoulders, he hisses and flinches away, dropping the cup to shield the stump of his right.

_“Why?”_

“Hush,” he says quietly, bundling the blanket up over the stump. “I apologize.”

_“Why?”_ Hawke says again, looking up at last, tears standing in his eyes. He is beginning to shiver.

Fenris reaches down to move Hawke’s left foot from the growing circle of water and vomit on the floor. In a way, he succeeds, as Hawke continues to flinch away from him.

“I’m bringing you to the other room,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. “Do you have socks?”

“Somewhere,” Hawke says, watching him, hurt and confusion writ large on his face. 

He lifts both hands slowly, palms up. Hawke stills, continuing to watch him, mouth set. 

“Hawke,” he says, waiting to see if Hawke will move away. When he does not, Fenris brings his hands closer, cups Hawke’s face between them.

“Hawke,” he says again. “Trust me.”

He halts, searching for the words. When he finds them, he nearly smiles. How often has he heard those himself, from Varric or Aveline or Hawke himself, striding through his door?

He says, voice low and careful, “A change of scenery will do you good.”

Hawke scoffs, pulling away from him. 

“Do you trust me?”

Hawke doesn’t answer, doesn’t look at him. He lets his hands fall, tries not to feel so stung.

“Do you want to stay here, then?”

“No.”

“So come with me,” he says, locating one of Hawke’s socks, fallen from the edge of the bed. He has seen no sign of any outerwear, but they are not going far. Hawke’s feet are larger than his; he cannot offer the use of his boots.

“Probably shouldn’t,” Hawke says, but he takes the sock when Fenris hands it to him, sits looking at it a moment as though he has forgotten what it is for.

“When has that ever stopped you before?” Fenris says, crouching to examine beneath the bed. As he suspected, the other sock is there, out of easy reach. He sighs and flattens himself to retrieve it.

When he re-emerges, Hawke is still barefoot, looking down at the soiled basin and the cup just past it. “Should take care of that.”

“I will find someone,” Fenris says, pulling on his socks for him. “Get up, Hawke.”

“I don’t want to.”

He sighs, setting Hawke’s feet down on a dry part of the floor and standing. “Come with me.”

“I can’t,” Hawke says, but follows when Fenris takes his wrist and pulls him up, leads him to the door. 

“You can,” Fenris says, and folds some of the blanket over his head. “It will be cold for a moment.”

Hawke grimaces, then gasps and pulls close when he opens the door. “That’s _very_ cold,” he protests, nearly turning back to go inside the room.

Fenris grips his elbow and draws him outside. Hawke groans, then twitches his elbow away, puts his hand on Fenris’s shoulder instead. 

The templar on-guard before the next door looks over, then sets his feet and one hand on his sword. “And what’s going on here?” 

“I have him,” Fenris says, doing his best to sound authoritative. Chances are good the men on guard were not chosen to think.

The templar frowns at that, but takes his hand off his sword, then leans over to look at Hawke behind him. “Maker’s breath, hasn’t he got a jacket? Or boots?”

_“I have him,”_ he repeats, walking past, Hawke’s hand tight on his shoulder.

The templar eyes him, then Hawke. “I’m sure you know best,” he says, in a tone that means much the opposite.

Fenris ignores him, leading Hawke into the far room and shutting the door behind him. Still warm, but Hawke is shivering.

“Sit,” he says, putting a hand on Hawke’s back to walk him to the bed before going to build up the fire.

Hawke immediately lies down and buries his face against the pillow.

“Lavender?” He sniffs briefly, then rubs his nose. “Ugh. Sorry. Crusting.”

“Did—“

“Yes,” he says miserably. “Right out the nose. On your pillow now. Sorry.”

He doesn’t answer, rising from the hearth to search for a spare piece of fabric. There is still a stack of towels left on the unused desk, and he rummages through them until he finds a clean washcloth. He brings it to the table and douses it with water from the pitcher, then returns to the bed.

“Here.” He brushes off the yellowish-brown detritus on the pillow and hands the dripping cloth to Hawke. 

“Thank you.” Hawke presses it to his face, shifting so he’s at the edge of the bed. He breathes in deeply, then very carefully begins to blow his nose. 

Fenris sits on the sliver of mattress available between the curve of Hawke’s thighs and his belly, and sets his left hand on Hawke’s waist. Hawke pauses to glance at him, then pointedly looks away. Fenris does not, and instead slides his hand along Hawke’s back.

Refolding the towel one-handed, Hawke drops it, then curses. Fenris leans to retrieve it, then refolds it and hands it back to him.

“Thank you. Anything I missed?”

“Mustache,” Fenris says, gesturing. “What there is of it. And beard.”

“Maker,” Hawke says, disgusted, and scrubs at both. “Now?”

“Here.” He takes the towel from Hawke and wipes away the last of the dried vomit.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m such a mess.” Hawke inhales, shuddering and uneven, then says, “I don’t want to die like this.”

Fear seizes him. “You won’t,” Fenris says, as calmly as he is able. He tosses the towel at the table and misses.

Hawke snorts as it hits the floor. “Good shot.”

“Rest, why don’t you?”

“Tired of it.”

Fenris sighs, and Hawke nearly smiles, hand settling on Fenris’s knee. His eyes are still hollow and weary. Fenris reaches to brush some of the hair from his forehead, avoiding the bruise.

Hawke still winces and turns aside. “Still hurts.”

“So rest.”

“Will you be here?”

“Will I be here, in my room?” Fenris echoes, taking Hawke’s hand. “Yes.”

“Try not to be impossible.”

Fenris raises his hand, gently presses his lips to the back. “Leave some space for me on the bed,” he says, and stands.

Most likely he should leave a note in Hawke’s room, or actually search for someone who will clean the mess, but he can’t bring himself to care. Instead he goes to the door and locks it, then checks on the fire. Burning well. His overshirt is overwarm now, and uncomfortable to lie down in besides, so he removes it and settles it on the table. He leaves the soiled towel where it is, and returns to the bed.

Hawke has shifted towards the wall, burrowing under the covers with his blanket still wrapped around him. He has shut his eyes, face drawn. Fenris sits on the bed, makes sure his sword is still within reach. After a moment, he unsheathes it, then leans it against the wall again.

“Really?” Hawke says, eyes open again.

“I don’t make fun of your sleeping habits,” he says, lying down.

“Debatable,” Hawke says, lifting his hand as though to touch him but stopping short.

“Here,” he says softly, beginning to slide his arm beneath Hawke’s head, and is still caught off-guard when Hawke drags himself closer, face pressing against Fenris’s chest and fingers winding tight into the front of his shirt.

He does his best to pull the covers over them both, then curls around Hawke.

“Everything hurts,” Hawke is saying against his collarbone, breathing harsh. 

His arms are crooked around the back of Hawke’s neck and waist, keeping him close. He bows his head over Hawke’s and says quietly, “Bear it just a little longer.” It is thin comfort, but it is what he knows.

“I’ll do my best,” Hawke says, trying for his usual bravado. His voice wavers, and his hand goes flat to Fenris’s chest.

“I know,” Fenris says, listening to the sounds of Hawke breathing. There is no certainty with these kinds of injuries. He could lose Hawke again tomorrow.

He inhales, and smells sickness, and sweat, and old, old fear. They have both come this far. Surely it is not too much to ask for just a little longer.

The rest of the night passes slowly.


	3. Chapter 3

Two days, then two weeks, pass in this manner. The infection passes. The fever recedes.

Hawke is given new clothes, new boots, and permission to roam Skyhold at will. He begins taking walks through the keep and falling asleep in inopportune places. The staff of both kitchens and tavern know to send someone for Fenris or Varric if Hawke falls asleep at the hearth. Occasionally, Hawke is delivered back like a particularly large and noisy parcel.

Fenris is in Hawke’s room, waiting, and the snoring alerts him even before the knock on the door. He opens it only to find that someone has blotted out the sky, and takes a half-step back, looks up at the horns.

“Shanedan, beresaad,” he says. It seems only polite, though the title is only a guess. “Annam essam Qun.”

The mountain of a man snorts a laugh, adjusting his armful. “Your accent’s shit.”

“Why does every Qunari I meet start with that?” he says, exasperated, but his gaze is fixed on Hawke.

“Probably because it’s true. Good try, though. Can I come in?”

Fenris steps aside, and the Qunari is already moving, stooping down and turning to the side to fit horns and shoulders through the door. He takes care to keep Hawke’s dangling feet from jostling against the doorframe. Good of him.

As he steps into the room and straightens again, he continues, “You’re going to want a little more stress on the ’s’, and bring the vowels from lower in your gut. Really commit to it, you’re in the _Qun!_ By the way, I’m the Iron Bull. You must be the broody one.”

Varric has a great deal to answer for.

He shuts the door. “Fenris.”

“Thought I’d come by and meet you. Your man’s good in a fight. You must be some team.”

“Thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” the Iron Bull says, gaze traveling around the room. He nods to the bed. “You’ll want him here, I’m assuming.”

“That would be best.”

He lays Hawke on the bed, legs hanging off the side, then kneels to efficiently unlace and wrestle off Hawke’s new boots.

“Boots in the bed. Barbaric,” he says, then chuckles as though at some private joke. He sets them neatly aside, rising and dusting off his hands. “Give him a lift, would you?”

Fenris is already sliding a hand beneath Hawke’s shoulders, levering him up so the Iron Bull can loosen the blankets and pull them aside. Hawke’s head lolls against his chest, and he steadies it, holds Hawke until the sheets are well clear before lowering him again. He brushes some of the hair back from Hawke’s forehead as the Bull swings Hawke’s feet onto the bed.

“The Champion of Kirkwall,” the Bull says, and gently folds the covers over Hawke, smoothes them down. Fenris does not readjust them, though he itches to, but leaves his hand beside Hawke. “You know, I’ve met a lot of titles in my day, and somehow in person, they just seem so… small.”

“I imagine everyone seems small to you,” Fenris remarks dryly.

The Bull only laughs. “Now I _definitely_ know you’re one of Varric’s friends. You know what he calls me?”

He does not.

_“Tiny,”_ the Bull tells him, and laughs again. Hawke grimaces and turns in his sleep, and Fenris reaches to straighten the covers.

He does look very small.

A large hand settles on one of his shoulders, and he startles, two steps away with his hands raised before he realizes what he is doing.

“Good reflexes,” the Bull says mildly. His hands are waist-level now, fingers lax, palms out. It is a difficult position to make look casual, but he manages.

They eye each other. The Iron Bull lowers his hands.

“Listen,” he says, still in that same tone. “I know it’s hard to be sure, but I think he’ll make it through. You should have _seen_ him at Adamant.”

“Yes,” he says slowly, lowering his hands as well. He should have. He shouldn’t have let Hawke talk him into staying behind; _he should have been there._

The Iron Bull casts him a glance. It is… considering, and careful, and sympathetic, all parts balanced in equal measure, and it sets Fenris’s teeth on edge.

He looks away. “Hawke fought well, you said?”

“Come by the tavern sometime,” the Bull says heartily, as though they have not just met, as though he expects Fenris will be there. He has Varric’s trick of openness and camaraderie. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Yes,” Fenris says. “Thank you. I would like that.”

—

It’s nearly evening when Hawke wakes again. He inhales sharply before stirring, gaze traveling around the room. Fenris looks up from his book, doesn’t bother reconfirming location. It makes Hawke paranoid, for unknown reasons. And offended.

“Skyhold,” Hawke says, then shuts his eyes again, rubs his face. “Wasn’t I in the bar? Maker’s ass, I’ve got this _taste_ in my mouth, what was I drinking?”

“The ‘Iron Bull’ brought you up.”

“Oh, him,” Hawke says, then yawns and slouches out of bed to take the seat beside Fenris. “Nice of him. He’s the one who bought me the drinks. Talky for a Qunari, isn’t he?”

Fenris puts his book down. “I’ve told you before, they speak like anyone else among themselves. And he may be Tal-Vashoth. ‘Iron Bull’ isn’t a traditional title.”

“I did ask, you know. Man said he was Qunari through and through.”

Interesting. “What did you speak of?”

“This and that. How I was feeling, where I’d come from, bit about Kirkwall and, well. You know.”

He does. “What did you tell him?”

“The usual. Poorly, all over, but mostly Lothering, it’s rank and horrible and I love to hate it, and nothing that wasn’t in the book, I think.” Hawke pauses for a moment, recants, “Mostly nothing that wasn’t in the book.”

He pauses again. “Wait. Wait… Maker’s breath. He started telling me about some old war campaign, and I told him about the Bone Pit, and then— Oh, he is good.”

He frowns, considering.

Fenris watches him, then says carefully, “And how are you feeling?”

Hawke slides him an unreadable glance. “Poorly,” he says, and nothing further.

Fenris leaves it at that, then shifts in his seat to consider the Iron Bull again. He had assumed beresaad, then Tal-Vashoth, but if the Iron Bull truly does follow the Qun, and is so far south, involved with the growing political force the Inquisition seems set on becoming, he has a different set of suspicions altogether.

Hawke says lightly, “Never thought we’d meet a Qunari who was the gossiping type.”

His new suspicion is that Hawke is deliberately missing the point. “Hawke, I think he’s a spy.”

Hawke makes a rude noise. “They’re not going to send a horns-and-all _Qunari_ to be a spy. Stick out like a sore thumb. Why not send someone like Tallis instead?”

“They’re all called ‘Tallis’ in that rank, Hawke.”

_“Our_ Tallis.”

“She’s not ‘our’ anything.”

“Still. More sensible, you know? Typical Qunari, right? Sensible?”

“The Qunari may live by a code, but do not imagine this makes them predictable,” Fenris says, and Hawke shrugs, concedes.

“I suppose. It would be a brilliant cover, I’ll give you that. We could always ask Varric, I think he’s coming by for cards later. Said he learned a new game from one of the scouts.”

“And I’m sure he’ll know how to cheat at it by morning.”

Hawke chuckles, then says, “I promise not to tell Varric you’ve underestimated him so badly. It would hurt his feelings.”

“How thoughtful of you. By all means, then. Let’s ask Varric.”

—

“Of course he’s a spy,” Varric says, five hands in and two eventual sovereigns richer.

“Well, you were right,” Hawke says to Fenris across the table, putting down his remaining cards. “Don’t be smug.”

Fenris ignores him. “And he’s allowed to _stay?”_

To his right, Varric raises his hands. “Inquisitor’s call, not mine. But look at it this way: if we _didn’t_ hire Bull, the Qunari would have spies on us anyway. They probably already do. This way, we know at least one of them, and he’s friendly. Also the Chargers are nothing to sneeze at. It’s not a bad deal: competent soldiers _and_ intel.”

“From a highly questionable source,” Fenris says sharply.

“See, this is why you’d never make it as a spy, Broody. All sources are questionable sources. You just have to ask the right questions.”

Interesting. He does not look at Hawke, who has volunteered nothing of what befell him in the Fade. “And how do you know what the right questions are?”

Varric exhales and looks at him like a hand of cards. He’s open about it, mercantile, making his own unreadable calculations. It doesn’t make Fenris bristle as it once might have; he trusts the results. Varric has never played against his friends outside the game table.

Varric glances from Hawke to him, then smiles and says, “Sometimes, you just know.”

He revises his estimation of Varric’s character. The dwarf is a cheat and scoundrel of the lowest order, which is to say a con-artist of the highest degree.

Fenris folds his cards and scowls at him. While he cannot truly find it in his heart to be angry with Varric, who is at the moment only guilty of loving Hawke more than the rest of them, being annoyed with Varric is an entirely different option.

Hawke laughs at his expression, then shifts in his seat. Something scuffs under the table, and Varric slides back quickly.

“Maker have mercy,” he says. “Wrong one, Hawke.”

“Sorry,” Hawke says, entirely unrepentant.

Varric rolls his eyes, but Hawke is grinning and his joy is infectious. Fenris reaches across the table, and Hawke takes his hand to kiss each knuckle.

_“O-kay,_ that’s my cue,” says Varric, pushing his cards and assortment of betting tokens towards the center of the table. “Elf, got a minute?”

“Perhaps,” he says, squeezing Hawke’s fingers before sliding his hand free.

“Great. Hawke, I’m stealing your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Hawke says with great dignity, gathering up the cards. “He is my very handsome and incredibly flexible lover, to whom I am extremely devoted.”

“Right,” says Varric. “‘Boyfriend’ it is.”

“I’ll see you out,” Fenris says, rising from the table.

Outside, Varric eases the door shut. “Listen, I hate to think of you cooped up in here. Bull said he’d be happy to have you train with his Chargers.”

“Ah yes,” Fenris says, leaning against the wall. “More information for the _spy_ to pass along.”

“Why, does it bother you to think the Qunari might get an edge on Tevinter?”

“It bothers me that the Qunari are still trying make inroads south, Varric. You saw what happened to Kirkwall.”

Varric laughs, bitter and brief. “Believe me, that was the first thing on my mind when we got his offer. But he’s decent enough, and pretty removed from most of the politics, as far as we can tell.”

“He was trained to lie,” he says, sharper than he intended. “It is all he knows.”

Varric shrugs. “Manners maketh the man. Giant bull-man, in this case.”

Fenris considers. “No.”

“Let me break it down for you. If it quacks like a duck?”

“It is a skilled mimic.”

Varric’s expression lightens, and he is beginning to grin. “I almost believe that one was on purpose! What has Hawke done to you?”

He hesitates, but the opportunity is too good. “Better to ask what Hawke hasn’t done to me.”

Varric laughs, then grimaces. “I hate that you made me hear that with my own two ears.”

Fenris laughs as well, surprised to do so.

Varric visibly relaxes, grinning at him. “Now that’s something I haven’t heard in a while. Thought you’d forgotten how.”

“As did I,” he says, suddenly discomfited. He folds his arms, does not move from the wall.

“Not that I’d blame you,” Varric says, staring out at the garden. Then he sighs and rubs his forehead. “This is taking years off my life, I swear.”

“The Inquisition?”

“That. This. Everything. Your idea of a ‘good’ joke.”

Fenris frowns. “Your inquisitor’s idea of a viable ally should be what worries you.”

Varric considers, hand lowering to the low wall beside him so he can drum his fingers. After a moment, he says, “Let me put it this way. I don’t think you can pretend to be something without actually becoming it. Oh sure, a few days, a few weeks, fine. But months? Years? It’s a part of you. Just look at Hawke.”

Fenris glances back, uneasy without being able to put words to why.

Varric continues, “You’re right. I admit that. And we are watching Bull, just in case. But I’m not convinced he’s a threat to us.”

A poor decision, but not his to make. “Think what you like.”

Varric laughs under his breath, waves his hand. “But here I am, talking about things that don’t matter again. Sure you’re not interested in meeting the Chargers? They’re good people. Their lieutenant, Krem, he’s a Vint like you.”

Fenris grunts.

“Now now. He’s got his own reasons for coming down south. Nice guy. Swings a maul bigger than the both of you put together. I think you’d like him.”

“Do you.”

“Think it over,” Varric advises, then adds, “They’re a tricky bunch, but they’re good at what they do. Fighting, scouting, getting people to talk. You might learn something.”

Fenris glances at him again, torn between exasperation and gratitude. Varric has always been able to infer a great deal more than he lets on.

He will consider it.

—

Hawke has been moving from desk to bed to table and back for the better part of an hour. It has been a week, and Fenris is fairly certain Varric’s offer is still open. He does not enjoy the idea, but Hawke continues to volunteer nothing regarding the cause of his restlessness, and Fenris has never been adept at leading a conversation.

He wishes he had the trick of it. Instead he only watches over his book as Hawke rearranges the bowls on the desk, then returns to the bed to scuffle with the window. He sets the book down, and Hawke twists quickly at the sound, hand braced on the wall.

“Are you watching me again?” he demands. “You know it makes me nervous when you do that.”

“Do what,” Fenris says, lifting his book again.

Hawke rolls his eyes, but only slightly. His right eye is still sore, the surrounding skin less startlingly hued but still swollen. Every part of him is healing slowly.

“You know what I mean,” Hawke says, then manages the latch on the window, pushes it open. “Watching. Waiting.”

“You find it objectionable when I watch you?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Hawke grumbles, breathing deeply. He drops back to the bed, then turns to sit slumped on the edge. “Sometimes I feel like everyone is just hovering and waiting for me to die.”

“No,” Fenris says softly, putting his book down again. “Never that. Just waiting.”

“Well, come wait here, next to me. Much more companionable, and I feel less like I’m being death-vigiled.”

He goes to sit beside Hawke, who shifts closer, angling his shoulder so his stump will be clear of Fenris’s side, then sighs and carefully leans his head against Fenris’s shoulder. After a moment, Fenris puts his arm around Hawke’s shoulders, hand cupping the back of his head.

Hawke sighs again, turning into the touch.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low. “I know I’m being appalling.”

“It’s fine,” Fenris says. 

“Everything just feels wrong today.”

Useless to say anything more, but he does. “Does it hurt very much?”

Hawke scoffs. “Sorry. It just. Hurts differently, and that’s the best thing I can say about it.” He turns his face against Fenris’s shoulder. “It’s not better. And it’s probably not worse.”

“And you’ve been doing as the healer said?”

Hawke tenses. “I don’t want to touch it.”

“She said it will help with the swelling and the pain.”

“I really. Fenris.” Hawke is beginning to sit upright again, pulling away. “I really don’t want to.”

Trying to draw Hawke close again only makes him shift more, angling his body so he can slide out of reach. Fenris lets him go. “Would you like someone else to?”

“No,” Hawke says, word flat and final, shoulders hunching. “I absolutely do not.”

“Very well.”

Fenris remains where he is, hands loosely folded in his lap. He could, he supposes, makes his excuses and depart. Varric frequently welcomes company. One of the servants pointed him to an ancient library, older and much dustier than the one beneath the rookery. He could seek out the commander, whom he has seen only in passing since their last encounter in Kirkwall. And if he is tending to his correspondences, there is a very tersely worded letter from Aveline that he still has not read all the way through; as far as he can tell, Hawke has not even opened his.

There are many things he could do. And he does not want to do any of them. Instead he looks at Hawke, who is staring down at the floor. Neither of them speak. It is only when Hawke begins to blink rapidly, breathing growing harsh and damp, that he looks away. He does not believe Hawke would welcome concern at the moment, so he keeps his hands in his lap and does not look again until Hawke has finished crying.

When he turns, Hawke is sitting as he was, slightly hunched, face dry and eyes further reddened. His mouth is a pinched ashen line, and small wonder. The wound hurts him still, is tender and raw after having been opened and drained and left to close again. Fenris sets one hand on his knee, and he does not move.

“Aren’t you cold?” Fenris says quietly. He himself is cold. He would like to close the window.

Hawke shakes his head. After a moment, he settles one foot against Fenris’s, but does not move closer.

“I’m here,” Fenris tells him. It doesn’t sound quite right.

He tries again. “I am here for you.”

“I’m fine,” Hawke says, voice low. He sniffs, then clears his throat. “I’m fine.”

He breathes in, holds it, then breathes out, and waits before starting it all over again. Good, then. Fenris’s back is cold, but he stays where he is.

Eventually, Hawke says, “You know the weird thing? I still feel it sometimes.” His words are so soft they are barely a whisper. “I still think I’ll wake up and it will be there. You remember when I broke my wrist that time on Sundermount? It still aches when it rains, and it’s not even there.”

“It happens.” This is true, but also inadequate, and Hawke says nothing in response. As well he should. “Perhaps it’s raining as well in the Fade.”

Hawke lets out a bark of a laugh. “Perhaps.” He shifts in place, settling hip and thigh against Fenris though he keeps his shoulder angled away. After a moment, he adds, tone lightening, “Have you spoken to that Solas fellow?”

“No?”

“You’d know him if you saw him,” Hawke says confidently, almost cheerily, as though they’d only been trading pleasantries all along. “Face like a nug and bald as an egg. He says things in the Fade reflect what’s around them here, on this side. Then he added a lot of other rubbish, and I pretended to fall asleep until Varric pulled him away. No one should have to listen to a philosopher on their sickbed.”

Fenris rubs his hand briefly over Hawke’s knee and replies in kind. “I don’t believe you’ve ever listened to a philosopher in your life.”

“Not true! I listen to you, when you talk about that Kossin fellow. Colson. Klaussun.”

“Koslun?”

“That’s the one,” Hawke says, expression almost relaxed but for the lines in his brow.

Fenris does not remark upon them. “You and Isabela both. Kirkwall nearly burned for his greatest work, and neither of you bothered to remember his name.”

“Lots of things were happening!” Hawke protests. “City on fire, Carver wasn’t writing, Isabela disappeared, the most beautiful man in the world wouldn’t so much as look my way. That’s you,” he adds gracelessly, guileless. “I had a lot on my mind.”

“I’m not a philosopher,” Fenris says, several beats too late, and Hawke grins at him, lazy and slow.

“Could have fooled me.”

Fenris feels his own mouth pulling up at one side. “You always did have a remarkable tendency to see the best in people.”

“I’m an optimist,” Hawke says with a practiced good cheer, then nearly cracks his jaw on a yawn. “Ouch.”

He grimaces and rubs a lingering bruise, hollowness creeping back into his expression. He made a good effort, but he is wearing down.

He needs sleep, and Fenris has other things he should do. Perhaps the letter from Aveline. Retrieving it and reading at the table would be no trouble.

He takes his hand from Hawke’s knee. “I’ll let you rest.”

As he stands, Hawke bolts upright as well, much faster than is likely healthy, nearly overbalancing as he catches at Fenris’s wrist.

“Don’t go,” he says, breathless, eyes huge. “Please. Please don’t go.”

Fenris stares back at him, aghast. Hawke does not beg. He was doing well. They were speaking.

“I wasn’t,” he manages, but Hawke is already uncurling his fingers and stepping back, shamefaced. “I won’t. I was only—“

Hawke still lets his hand drop, gaze cast down. “Thank you,” he says, and collapses heavily back onto the bed. He slumps forward again, hand over his eyes.

“Are you—“

“Just a touch of paranoia, I think,” Hawke says lightly, not looking up. “We’ve all lost a lot. Jumpier about it than most, I guess.”

Fenris is still standing in place, not sure where to put his hands. It seems Hawke is at a brittle point of the afternoon, ready to break the instant he is touched.

“Hawke,” he says. He tries not to let his trepidation show. “I am going to get something from my room. I will return shortly.”

Hawke wags his last two fingers in a gesture he takes to mean he should go, so he does. When he returns, Hawke has shut the window, leaving the shutters open, and relocated to a chair at the table, slouched far down, head hanging off the back. As before, his hand is covering his eyes.

“Go back to bed, Hawke.”

“I’d really rather not.”

Fenris brings his letter to the table, sits in the other chair. Sliding the letter into the cover of the book he left there, he fidgets with one corner, then tries the direct approach. “You’re exhausted.”

Hawke doesn’t move. “Exhausted of people telling me what to do.”

“Now you’re deliberately being obstinate.”

“Excellent observation. Try another, I like this game.”

This isn’t going to work. Fenris switches tactics. “I’m worried about you.”

Hawke lifts his hand briefly, then sets it back down. “You shouldn’t be. What’s there to worry about? I’m Garrett Hawke, the ‘Champion of Kirkwall’! I’m always fine.” His voice shakes, and he swallows. “I always get back up.”

“Hawke?” Fenris says, hand flat against his book like it is a weight holding him down. “Are you all right?”

“No.” Hawke drags his hand down and grins, but the tightness in his jaw turns it into a rictus. His eyes are red again, cheeks damp. “Can’t you see? I’m all left—“

“Don’t,” Fenris says sharply. He is standing, chair pushed back from the table. “Don’t you dare. I—“ He falters, then swallows and says, “I’ve heard that one before. You’re going to have to come up with new material.”

Hawke shuts his eyes. “Stickler.”

Fenris takes the half-step that closes the gap between them. “Hawke?”

Hawke jerks back from him, eyes snapping open. “Don’t! Touch me.”

He does not. “Are you sure you’d like me to stay?”

“Maker, Fen,” Hawke says, looking up as though it pains him. “That’s the one thing I’m sure about.”

“Well,” he says, hand back on the table as he settles into his chair. “Good, then. We’re agreed.”

Hawke is looking past him now, most likely out one of the windows by the door. Fenris inspects his hands a moment, then points across the table.

“Cards?”

_“Please,”_ Hawke says, pushing the deck across the table. “If I drop one, you have to pretend you didn’t see it.”

Fenris makes a noncommittal noise, begins to shuffle.

“What’s that about?” Hawke says, not laughing, but with his expression beginning to ease.

“I’ll consider it.”

“Fen, no! You have to be nice to me.”

“Is that a house rule?” He taps the stack and shuffles again.

“It should be.”

“As I’m the dealer, I believe that means I am the house at the moment. I will make the rules.”

Hawke eyes him, then says mildly, “I’ve always like that authoritarian gleam in your eyes.”

Fenris coughs, fumbles the cut, and Hawke smiles.

“Look at you,” he says, making a gesture as though he will reach over, then halting. Still, his look is fond. “I’d take on another high dragon for that smile.”

“Please don’t,” Fenris says, beginning to deal. “For both our sakes. You can’t imagine I would let you go alone, and I don’t look forward to getting bitten again.”

Hawke stops smiling as he reaches for his cards, expression flickering then closing down. He sits back, slides his cards off the table so he can get them in hand.

“Hawke?”

“Nothing.” He is looking over his cards. “Don’t mind me. What should we play?”

“The usual? I dealt five.”

“Wicked Grace is no good with only two, and you know all my tells.”

“Not all. A significant portion.”

Hawke huffs. It might have been a laugh. “Diamondback, then? We’ll need one more.”

Simple enough. He slides a sixth card into Hawke’s hand before taking another for himself.

Quietly, he says, “No more high dragons.”

She had nearly killed him, the one outside the Bone Pit. Would have killed him, if he hadn’t ghosted through her lower jaw the instant the world swung to a sudden halt. He remembers now, more than the dizzying fall, Hawke’s ashen face bent over him, the sickly taste of elfroot and iron in his mouth. They had not brought the abomination that time, and it had been a slow journey back to Kirkwall.

“No more,” Hawke agrees, gaze fixed on his cards.

Fenris chooses a card, lays it down. “Wager two. I still don’t understand what you could have possibly seen in a place called ‘the Bone Pit.’”

“Ah, youth. I was impulsive.” Hawke slides a card up from his fellows. “Could you? One. Don’t cheat.”

Fenris takes the card and lays it facedown, ignoring Hawke’s aspersion. _“Were_ you.”

Hawke slides his cards back into a stack, taps them on the table. “I’ve become ever so much more circumspect in my old age.”

Fenris snorts. Hawke looks up, some of the tension easing around his eyes. “Don’t believe me?”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Stick around, then,” Hawke tells him softly, mouth crooked and uncertain.

“I intend to,” he says, and deals again.

—

The horns wake him early one afternoon. More concerning, they wake Hawke in a rare moment of uninterrupted sleep.

Fenris is upright, trying to untangle himself from the blankets as he reaches for his sword and finds nothing. It’s only when Hawke rolls over, hand patting against his elbow, that he recalls that he has fallen asleep in Hawke’s bed again, as is his habit now, and that he was expressly forbidden from bearing any weapons into the room after the first few times.

He resents the absence of a lock on the door almost as much as Hawke does now, but at least some of the servants have become almost familiar and do not startle him as badly. He sits back, glancing over at Hawke.

Hawke wakes slowly this time, face twitching as he stirs, then snorts. After a moment, he yawns, hand settling back to the mattress, eyes flicking open.

“Fenris.”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, then shuts his eyes. He is asleep again within minutes.

Lucky him. Fenris stares at the far wall and tries not to feel resentful. Hawke needs the rest. He is still exhausted and wan, complaining of aches and soreness and picking at scabs that he insists should be healed by now, though they are not. He ignores his food unless coerced half the time, claiming nausea or complete disinterest, and cannot get enough the other half. His weight fluctuates. At least he sleeps more often now. At least he can occasionally stay asleep.

Fenris refrains from touching him. If he is asleep now, better to let him stay that way. Instead he slowly pulls free from the covers and gets out of bed, rearranging the blankets around Hawke. After a moment, he takes his pillow and tucks it behind Hawke, between his back and the wall.

He goes to sit at the desk. The afternoon sun is still pouring generously through the window there as well, and it is warm. For a moment, he thinks he might be able to fall asleep again, but he is wrong. He considers the assorted bowls and bottles before him, then retrieves Aveline’s letter, still tucked inside the book on the table. He has received two more in the interim, but will start with this one first.

It is nearly late afternoon when Hawke wakes.

“Fen?”

“Hawke,” he replies, still at the desk, folding over his latest attempt at a letter. It is cheap paper at least, meant for Hawke to practice writing on. “I’m here.”

“Mm.” The sheets rustle. After a while, Hawke rolls off the bed and shambles around to the desk. His hair is a mess, and he runs a hand through it as he surveys Fenris, still heavy-eyed.

“You look like you didn’t sleep at all,” he says, which is an unfair assessment from a man with what looks to be a windblown bramble thicket on his head.

Fenris does not comment on his hair, only gestures him down. “I tried. The horns woke me.”

Hawke sits on the desk, leaning forward. “Horns?”

“By the gate,” he says, trying to get the left side of Hawke’s hair to lay flat.

“Oh,” Hawke says, shutting his eyes. “Careful. Probably an important guest. Or the inquisitor.”

He runs his fingers through Hawke’s hair one last time before giving up; he only wanted to touch Hawke anyway. “The _‘inquisitor,’”_ he scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “The ‘Herald of Andraste’ and _Dalish._ As though any self-respecting Dale would consent to being puppeted about by the Chantry.”

Hawke raises one eyebrow at him. “You’ve been listening to Merrill, haven’t you?”

“I have not,” he says, but Hawke only laughs at him.

“He’s not so bad. Bit of a priss, but I suppose that’s one way to get things done.”

“’Not so—‘” he repeats, outraged, stiffening in his chair as he twists towards Hawke. “He _left you in the Fade.”_

Hawke only shrugs, rubbing his eyes. Absurd. He is absurd. Then he yawns, and says, “It’s not entirely his fault. I volunteered.”

Fenris sits very still for a moment, hands gripping the arms of the chair. Then he says, voice rising on each word, “You did _what.”_

Hawke shuts mouth so quickly his teeth click. Then, quietly, he says, “I volunteered.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know!” Hawke snaps, standing abruptly and retreating to the table. “Temporary insanity? I like Stroud? Extreme guilt? Take your pick!”

He flings himself into one of the chairs at the table, hissing when he bangs himself against it. Fenris gets up and follows.

“You _left me,”_ he says, one hand on the table, leaning to stare down at Hawke, who will not meet his eyes.

“I had to.”

“You did not,” he says sharply.

“I did,” Hawke says, sitting hunched and miserable, arm wrapped around himself, leaning slightly to favor his right shoulder. “I couldn’t save Kirkwall. Couldn’t save anyone, really. But I could keep you safe. I could save Stroud. I could do this one thing right.”

Fenris straightens slowly, one hand still braced on the table. Something grips him. Possibly anger. Possibly bewilderment. Possibly even sorrow. He struggles to reply but there is nothing to say. He settles into the other chair.

There are too many things to say, and he will regret all of them. He sorts through them until he can find one thing that is both true and kind.

“You have done enough for other people in your life, Hawke.”

Hawke laughs, sharp and pained, face in his hand. “You’re right, honestly. Bethany killed. Would’ve lost Carver but for the Wardens, and we saw how well _that_ turned out. Mother… dead. The Chantry gone. Orsino gone. I should just quit while I’m ahead.”

He does not dare touch Hawke. He does not know what either of them would do. Instead, he says, “You stopped the Qunari invasion.”

Hawke groans. “Would everyone please stop going _on_ about the Qunari invasion, it was _one time._ All I did was kill a man while everyone else stood and watched. Anyone with half a brain could have done the same thing.”

“The arishok would not have accepted a challenge from anyone else in the city, Hawke. There was only you.”

Hawke goes very still at that. Too still. He has, perhaps, said the wrong thing again.

He hesitates, then tries for humor. “And no one else would have done it with such panache.”

At this, Hawke shifts, mouth tightening as he lifts his head. With a forced lightness in his tone, he says, “Look at you, being kind to me. It was blood magic, and we both know it.”

They do. He should not have said anything. “It was to save a city, and you have not used it since.”

“That you know of.”

Fenris straightens in his chair, frowning. He would have known, surely. _“Have_ you used it since?”

The look Hawke gives him is opaque, face carefully neutral and mask-still. “It’s certainly possible.”

“You’re being _im_ possible. It’s a yes or no question, Hawke.”

“I decline to answer.”

“I don’t—“ He stops himself, stands up. “It doesn’t matter.”

Hawke raises both eyebrows at that, an edge creeping into his voice. “Well, clearly it does.”

“It doesn’t matter whether you are a maleficar, it matters that you won’t _tell me!”_

“Because that would go over _so_ well!”

“I have said _nothing_ about how you chose to duel the arishok—“

“You don’t have to!” Hawke shouts, standing now. “I know you! I don’t want to frighten you, but I also don’t want to die!”

“I—“ Fenris begins, not sure what he will say, not sure what there is to say, but Hawke cuts him off.

“Which would you prefer, that I become a blood mage or that I die?”

“Don’t ask this of me, Hawke,” he warns.

“Tell me,” Hawke says, eyes dark with anger, unyielding. “Which is preferable, that I were a blood mage or dead?”

“We haven’t come to that point yet.”

“And if we did.”

It is a challenge, not a question. “We are not discussing this,” Fenris says, beginning to turn away. He should not have said anything at all.

“We have to!” Hawke shoots back, and Fenris looks towards him again, shoulders stiffening.

_“Why?”_

“Because it will come to that point one day! And if it does, I want to know: Would you rather I be a blood-mage, or that I _die?”_

“I would rather be there, and die with you!” Fenris shouts, unable to bear it any longer. It is true.

Hawke jerks back from him as though stricken, eyes gone wide.

Something sharp and ugly twists in his chest, and he adds, sneering, “No blood magic necessary.”

Hawke is unsteady on his feet, face gone ashen and mouth moving, though he seems unable to speak. Fenris turns and heads for the door.

“Fen—“ Hawke begins, sounding choked, and there is a scuff, something clattering on the table, but Fenris is already shutting the door behind him.

He stays where he is for a moment, breathing hard. He should have taken his cloak, but cannot find it in himself to care. How could he say such things to Hawke? How _dare_ Hawke say such things to him.

Something settles heavily inside the room, and he nearly turns, opens the door again, walks back to— To do what? To comfort Hawke? To upbraid him further?

It is useless to attempt comfort now, especially when he was the cause. He looks away, glares at the templar who is studiously ignoring him. 

No point in going back inside. He will only say the wrong thing again. So he walks away, and does not look back.


	4. Chapter 4

There is small room tucked away by the garden, with a statue of Andraste against the far wall, a legion of candles at her feet.

Fenris has taken refuge there, in the corner to the right of the doorway. He has left the door mostly closed, the better to trap the heat from the candles. So far as he can tell, it is usually quiet, and most are not inclined to speak to a stranger. For those who are, he has found an excuse that deters further conversation, He does not wish to use it today. If possible, he would rather not speak again at all today. He has said enough. 

For a moment, he only stands with his back to the wall, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the far corner. Then he sits, sliding down slowly, arms crossed and knees peaked before him.

He shouldn’t have said those things. He should regret saying those things. He only regrets the look on Hawke’s face, eyes gone wide with horror, color draining from his skin.

But how dare Hawke ask him to make that choice.

As easy as that, he is furious again, teeth clenching, fingers tight at his elbows. He hopes no one will arrive; he would be hard-pressed to explain the decidedly hostile nature of his supposed prayers.

But Hawke should not have asked him to make that choice.

Hawke should not have left him behind.

Hawke should not have left him.

Hawke chose to leave him.

It makes sense, he supposes bitterly. Hawke can be generous to a fault, with an unfortunate and overwhelming sense of duty. If the rifts in the sky truly are a sign of the world’s demise, and the supposed Herald of Andraste the only one who could slow or even stop it, then of course Hawke would volunteer. How easy it must have been for him. The feelings of one runaway slave measured against the rest of the world? What a simple decision to make.

As suddenly as his anger came, it is gone again, leaving only pain and grief in its wake. On the whole, he much preferred the anger. 

Several of the candles gutter and die as he sits. He suspects Aveline would tell him he is wallowing in self-pity. He misses her. He misses Isabela, who would mock him for it.

His shirt collar feels tight, so he pulls at it, leaving his fingers hooked in, if only for something to hold onto. Suddenly, he is angry again, though the grief and pain have not diminished. No one should have to feel this much, he thinks. Nothing is worth this.

There is a scuff at the doorway, and the slight creak of hinges as someone opens the door. Fenris huddles deeper into his corner and hopes it is not Hawke.

Hawke steps into the room carefully, glancing once at the altar before turning immediately to Fenris’s corner. He is shivering.

“My, but it’s cold out there. I thought spring was supposed to come soon.”

Fenris has nothing to say to this.

Hawke waits, then takes several more steps in when he is not rebuffed. He does not approach Fenris, instead sitting heavily before the altar, close as he can get to the heat offered by the candles. He sighs, clenching and unclenching his hand, kneading each knuckle against his left knee. After a minute of this, he rubs his face and looks up.

“Andraste guide me, because honestly, I have not been doing a very good job of guiding myself.”

Fenris scoffs, but he is not looking at Hawke. So far as he can tell, Hawke makes no move to look back at him either.

“I wish I knew what to say. I wish I weren’t so afraid. I know I— I know I’ve chosen poorly. Sometimes, I wish someone else could make these choices for me, or at least tell me if they were the right ones. I wish—“ His breath catches, and he is silent a moment before resettling himself. “I wish I understood more, and hurt him less. I don’t want to believe it’s an inevitable part of who we are. I never have.”

Fenris unhooks his fingers from his collar as quietly as he can, folds his arms again, tries to pull his knees closer to his chest. He himself wishes he were anywhere else right now. He watches Hawke from the corner of his eyes. 

“So what should I do? Can’t you give me a sign?” Hawke is folding now, shoulders slumping, but he tries for humor, voice only a little strained. “Should I maybe consider a career change?”

He falls silent then, waiting for some response, head bowed. Andraste will not answer him: this they both know.

Fenris looks away again, does not stir. There are three things he knows, though he wishes he didn’t: Hawke has used blood magic. Hawke left him.

Hawke has been nothing but kind to him.

So. Hawke is convinced he has a reason for the second. As for the first…

Fenris has never known a mage who did not glory in their power. But he has known a few who have kept their powers properly leashed, for the sake of those around them. And he knows one who would never willingly turn a hand against him. 

He gets up, all his nerves rubbed raw. Hawke continues staring at the candles as he approaches, only stirs when Fenris sets a hand on his shoulder.

“Hawke. I’ll be back in a bit. I just need some time to think.”

Hawke nods, jaw working. The candlelight only makes the shadows deeper beneath his eyes. “Of course. I’ll only be here a moment longer.”

Fenris withdraws to his corner, looks towards the wall. He rubs his hand, then crosses his arms. It means nothing. He would like it to mean nothing.

If Hawke has anything further to say to Andraste, it is silently. After a while, he gets up, groaning softly and muttering under his breath, stamping his feet. As he turns to leave, he pauses before the little box of unlit votives by the other side of the door.

He does not light one and departs without another word. Fenris only turns to watch the last fold of his cloak disappear through the door. Perhaps they will be fine as they are. Perhaps he will sleep apart from Hawke tonight, and they can wake in the morning and never speak of this again.

The silence pulls like a tether between them. Fenris gets up, all his limbs heavy with reluctance, and goes to the door. Hawke cannot have gotten far.

“Hawke!”

By the pillars supporting the balcony overhead, Hawke stops, then turns slowly.

Fenris does not venture out of the doorway. It is still cold outside, getting colder as the sun begins to set. “I’m no Andraste,” he says carefully, weighing each word. “But you’ve done well enough so far. Just give me more time.”

Hawke is leaning against the pillar, not for appearances but most likely because he is genuinely tired despite sleeping half the afternoon. He didn’t even change out of the clothes he slept in.

“Look at you,” he says softly to Fenris, eyes yearning and tender. “Are you sure you’re not a sign? You’d be a good one.”

Belatedly, Fenris realizes how it must look. The waning daylight, the glow of candles behind him, the frame of the doorway. Hawke always did have a sense of the dramatic.

“Very,” he says firmly. Even for Andraste, he would not stoop to only being someone’s mouthpiece. “I am nothing but myself, as I have always been.”

Hawke almost smiles at that, but fades partway through. He says nothing else but does not look away, as though waiting for Fenris to say something else.

Fenris only crosses his arms, lowering his gaze, and eventually Hawke says, “I’ll see you later, then.”

Fenris only looks up when he can hear Hawke’s footsteps receding, a sure sign he will not be looking back, and watches him go. He walks slowly, and takes more care on the stairs than he used to. He tires so quickly now. He should sleep more. He should eat more. Useless to think it. Hawke will recover as he does everything else: on his own time, and at his own pace.

Fenris watches Hawke until he disappears up the stairs, then turns back inside to the altar.

—

It is just past dusk when he emerges from the altar, shutting the door behind him. He hurries through the garden, not wanting to linger, though he slows as he approaches Hawke’s door.

He could turn now. He could walk back to his own room and they could spend three years talking of only inconsequential things and falling silent whenever they draw too near to a painful topic. 

He grits his teeth and goes to knock at Hawke’s door. There is a scuffle inside, then hasty footsteps, and the door opens quickly. Hawke’s eyes are red again, hair still untidy, and he is still wearing the clothes he slept in, hasn’t bothered to take off his cloak. He makes a gesture, as though he will reach for Fenris, pull him inside and into an embrace, but stops himself. Instead he steps aside to let Fenris in, shutting the door after him before returning to the table.

Fenris trails after him. “I am sorry,” he says quietly. When Hawke sits, he does not.

Hawke only shakes his head, sitting heavy and tilted in his chair. _“I’m_ sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you.” Grief has made his voice rough and thick, and Fenris sets both hands on the back of the other chair to refrain from doing anything unwise.

“I—“ he begins, then, “You’re—“ He gives up and looks aside. Hawke is injured, and tired, still healing and still so afraid. “I understand. I am also afraid.”

“You’re one of the bravest people I know.”

“I doubt that.” He is still standing, hands braced on the back of the chair, looking at the floor so he does not have to look at Hawke.

“Well, don’t,” Hawke says, trying to sound self-assured, but only managing a shadow of his usual confidence.

Fenris looks up, jaw tight. “Hawke, if I am brave, then you are exemplary.”

“An exemplary fuck-up,” Hawke replies, rubbing his forehead as though it is paining him.

“I don’t believe that.”

Hawke presses his mouth tight, does not meet his eyes.

Fenris rearranges and refolds his hands over the chair, shifting his weight. Whatever he can say, he doubts it will be enough. Still, he exhales, and says, “I want to be kind to you, Hawke. As you have been kind to me.”

Hawke flinches. “I… don’t—“

“You have been kind to me,” Fenris says firmly, seating himself, then adds, “Far more than I deserve.”

Hawke puts his hand over his face, then lowers it, shaking his head. Choked, he says, “I don’t think that’s true at all.”

“Let’s talk?”

“Let’s.”

Neither of them speak. They are each waiting, perhaps. Or perhaps Hawke has been dreading this conversation as much as he has.

Fenris picks at a worn spot on his trousers, just at the knee, then says, voice low, “Do you remember what I told you? That night at the Gallows?”

Hawke frowns, gaze distant. “No? Not… really. Not with everything else that was going on. I’m sorry.”

Understandable. But still. Fenris sighs and ceases picking, hand folding over his knee. “I told you that I could imagine nothing worse than living without you.”

Hawke is very still.

“I have done it,” he continues, and even now, it is difficult to say. He did. He managed. Somehow, he managed. “And it is still true.”

He does not think he could have managed for very long.

Hawke swallows hard, then says again, “I’m sorry.” He is looking back down at the floor, hand lax on the table beside him. He clenches it momentarily, then says, as his fingers uncurl, “In my defense, I thought I would come back.”

“You did,” Fenris allows, feeling his mouth tighten. “Though at great cost.”

Hawke winces, shutting his eyes briefly. “What is this?” he says wearily. “What are we fighting about? Is this still about blood magic?”

“It wasn’t,” Fenris says, but he assumes it is now. He straightens in his chair. It wasn’t a fight either, but doubtful that Hawke will let it lie. 

“You know I wouldn’t— I know it makes you uncomfortable. I know you think it leads to worse.” Hawke looks down, hand fiddling in his lap. Finally he offers, “I wouldn’t unless I had to.”

“I know.” He does. Quietly, he says, “I trust you, Hawke. I wish— Please don’t use that to prove a point.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke says, then, “I did. Against Nightmare.”

There is no good option between condone or condemn, Hawke on the one hand and blood magic on the other. Fenris does not look up.

Carefully, he says, “And you are alive.”

“I _think_ so.” It should be glib, but is only hushed and tired. “Some days, not so sure.”

“Then,” he says, and halts. “I cannot fault you. For surviving.”

For a moment, he thinks that if Hawke says anything, he will walk out of the room, out of Skyhold, and never look back. He knows he would not. But he could.

The moment passes. He looks up and Hawke is still sitting there, shoulders low, features heavy and tired. He does not touch Hawke, does not say anything further. There is nothing more to say.

Finally, Hawke stirs. Lifts his hand. Rubs his face, the corners of his eyes.

“I did do that,” he says softly. “Survive.”

They are both silent again.

The duel for Kirkwall had been a near thing. The scar still pains Hawke sometimes, though he hasn’t mentioned it yet. Fenris does not know if it is paining him now. Whatever the circumstances in the Fade, they could not have been anything less dire. He convinces himself that he may have many reasons for not wishing to see Hawke resort to it again.

Likely he is lying.

“What can I do for you?” he says at last.

“Don’t _die for me.”_

“‘With,’” Fenris corrects.

_“Don’t.”_

“Don’t leave me behind.”

Hawke inhales, holds it, then concedes. “You have a point.”

“I know.”

“But I had my reasons.”

“Such as?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

Fenris considers him, then says quiet and low, “Did you know it was Corypheus?”

Hawke freezes.

It is all the answer he needs. “Why didn’t you _tell me?”_ he snarls, furious again, more than. He can feel the burn of the lyrium as it lights in response.

Hawke is looking at him, lost and bewildered.“I couldn’t— Fenris. I just— I—“

“You knew,” he says, implacable. It was not difficult to piece together; Hawke would not have left so quickly for a _simple_ favor. “You _knew_ it was that— that creature! And you _talked me out of it,_ you left me behind on purpose!”

“I wanted you to be _safe!”_ Hawke shouts, no longer at a loss for words. Good, then. It is to be a fair fight.

He is standing now, Hawke sitting back to look up at him. “You had no right to leave me behind!”

“I wasn’t about to ask you to risk your life for me!”

“It is my life to give! You were quick enough to go when Varric asked!”

“It was my family’s blood that sealed Corypheus, and mine that unleashed him! I had a _responsibility—“_

“You had a responsibility to _me!”_

Hawke flinches from that, and for a moment, Fenris is viciously, intensely satisfied. Then his satisfaction turns sick and guilty. It is true in many ways, what he said. It did not need to be said in that one.

Softer, he adds, shoulders bowing, “And I to you. Your safety is my responsibility as well.”

Hawke is shaking his head, over and over again. “No,” he says. “No, I had to— This was the only way. I just— I had to know you would be safe. That was— That’s my responsibility. That’s what I had to do.”

Doubtless he truly believes it. And yet. “You would have left me.”

“How is that any different from your _offer?_ I can’t— I can’t let you endanger yourself for me.”

“We are more likely to survive when we work together, Hawke!” he snaps, then clenches his teeth and subsides. There are many differences. Hawke will dispute them all. 

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” he says quietly, with great effort. “But I believe it.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t ask me that. Please don’t ask me that.” Hawke has his hand over his eyes, face turned down towards the table. “Not right now.”

Fine, then. Fenris turns away and begins to pace.

“Fen,” Hawke begins, then sighs and does not continue.

Fenris has made several circuits of the room, stopping occasionally at the windows, before Hawke speaks again. He stops pacing.

“I don’t regret that you’re here and safe. I do wish it had turned out a little better for me, though.”

Fenris stays where he is, halfway across the room, facing a wall with his hands folded behind his back. “I wish I had done anything but let you walk away from me in Crestwood,” he says. “I wish I could do anything to help you now.”

“You’re here,” Hawke says. “You’re alive.”

Fenris turns, hands loose at his sides, does not know what to do with them. “That can’t be enough.”

Hawke only looks at him, eyes dark and filled with a mute appeal.

Fenris returns to his seat. “Hawke,” he says, settling heavily into it. “There must be something I can _do.”_

“You could believe me for once,” Hawke says, voice tight, but he doesn’t look away. “You’re here. You’re alive. That’s all.”

“I don’t—“

“Can we not have this argument right now?” Hawke says, words cracking with desperation, and he is reaching to wipe his eyes.

Fenris looks away. He had not intended this. He had only wanted— He doesn’t know what he had wanted. Hawke had been resting. He should have told him to go back to bed.

When he reaches to touch Hawke’s elbow, Hawke starts and pulls away. 

“Not right now, please,” he says, words hoarse.

Understandable. Fenris withdraws, hands folding one over the other. There is little he has done today but make things worse.

What sunlight there was is completely gone when Hawke says, “Not a good day for either of us, I think.”

“No.”

“Had to come out sometime.”

“It did not have to be now,” Fenris says, looking aside.

He could have been there. If he had been there, perhaps he could have prevented this in some way. They could both be safely out of the Fade, across the sea, across the continent. They could be doing anything other than this right now.

The possibilities sicken him.

Hawke shifts forward in his chair. At the motion, Fenris looks up, and the room feels very small very suddenly. In only a few moments, Hawke will say something carefully weighted and unbearably sincere. Or not. Perhaps they can both hold their peace.

Better not to take that chance. Fenris clears his throat and stands. “I’m going to get some air. I will be back.”

Something very like hurt flashes across Hawke’s face, but he only says, “Of course.”

They say nothing else as Fenris makes his way back across the room and to the door, taking his cloak with him this time. Wordlessly, he departs, and shuts the door behind him.

—

He goes to get a drink.

He gets several, and eventually remembers to get one for Hawke. When he departs late into the evening, he carries it back carefully in both hands, one on the handle and one flat on the bottom. He spills a little going up the stairs, and does not remember to feel embarrassed.

The door is uncharacteristically difficult to open, one-handed, but he manages, sets his feet carefully over the sill. He catches the door behind one hip and backs up to shut it.

“Oh good,” says Hawke, sitting up in bed. ‘Oh no,’ says his tone.

“For you,” Fenris says, setting the mug on the table. Far side first, then settle the rest. A wet ring is already forming on the tabletop.

Hawke sighs and shifts towards the wall. “Come on, then.”

He does, and gladly, scuffing out of his boots and dropping his cloak on a chair before placing his feet carefully on a path towards the bed. He slides in next to Hawke and immediately presses his face to Hawke’s chest. Hawke tenses slightly, heartbeat jumping with a hard inhale, but he eases. He is warm and soft and perfect.

“Garrett Hawke, you are the— the— the luckiest and most infuriating rat-bastard I have ever known,” Fenris declares into Hawke’s sternum. It’s a good phrase. He heard Isabela say it once. More than once.

Isabela and Varric say a lot of things.

“Hm.”

“My life is much diminished without you.”

“I’m sure.”

Hawke is not taking him seriously. He shifts to press his face further against Hawke, puts one arm around his waist.

“Believe me,” he insists, then adds, “I thought you were dead for three months.”

It’s easier to say, drunk. There’s a numbness that keeps the sucking hole in his chest at bay, as though he had reached in himself, crushed something vital. He is much more comfortable with causing this than experiencing it, has felt it before, hoped he never would again. Then Aveline had looked up as he stepped through her doorway, and handed him a letter.

Hawke is unimpressed. “And what am I supposed to do with that?”

“I— There’s nothing to be done with—“

“Not like you would’ve brought it up otherwise.”

“I said what I said,” he answers, bewildered. “There is nothing else.”

“I’m not going to feel guilty for doing what I thought was best,” Hawke says, slow and furious.

There is another argument here, but he hasn’t the heart for it. Not now.

“I’m not here to fight,” he says instead, helplessly, but Hawke has already pulled away.

“So don’t.”

“Fine,” he snaps, but it lacks any true heat. He cannot even summon the energy to be an angry drunk. Just morose. How predictable.

He sighs and slides closer to Hawke. The entire room feels unsteady and unreal, all parts of it spinning separately, at different rates. Hawke, though, is solid and warm. Which isn’t enough to make the spinning stop, or even slow, but it does become almost tolerable.

Which is a very poignant thought, probably, and he should tell Hawke. He would, if the words would fit right. If he were less dizzy. If Hawke were less taut with indignation and anger. If he could say anything right at all today.

“Hawke?” he says, tentative. “I’m sorry.”

“Not right now.”

Fenris chances a glance up. Hawke has his eyes shut, but his mouth is too tight for him to be near sleep. He could touch Hawke’s mouth, try to ease his expression, touch his chest, gently touch along his jawline. He does not think Hawke would appreciate it at the moment. But he would like to.

He curls back against Hawke’s chest and sighs again. He could try to sleep, but he would only wake sick and miserable a short time later.

If he did, though, Hawke would take care of him. He is pleased to realize he believes this. Hawke would lay him on his side and bring him water and touch him gently, though his mouth would be flat and disapproving all the while. It is a pleasant thought.

“Hawke?”

“What.”

“I would give anything,” he says quietly, “to have kept you safe.”

Hawke is very still. His heart continues beating, however, and his chest still rises and falls, so Fenris is not overly alarmed. Hawke is just thinking. Which is fine. He himself is tired of thinking, as it has been leading nowhere as of late.

Finally, Hawke puts his arm around him, then swallows hard. Just as softly, he says, “Go to sleep, you ass. We’ll sort this out in the morning.”

—

It is the middle of the night when he blinks awake, fire banked and windows shuttered against the cold; someone has been in and gone while he was sleeping. Careless. But this is not what woke him.

An elbow knocks against him again, and he sits partway up to look at Hawke, caught in the throes of some dream. He is twitching, not quite waking but likely he will if this keeps up. Fenris eyes him, then lies down again, settling an arm across Hawke’s chest, shifting until he can press his lips against Hawke’s hair.

“I’m here,” he says softly, and Hawke turns towards him, making a small sound, hand coming up to grip Fenris’s forearm. Then he sighs and burrows closer. After a moment, he shudders once more, says something that isn’t quite a word, then exhales and is still again. Fenris watches his expression ease, and is glad for it.

Such a simple thing.

It is good, he thinks, that some things can still be simple. He shuts his eyes and listens to Hawke’s breathing.


	5. Chapter 5

Hawke is already awake by the time he rouses just after dawn. Rather, no one is in bed with him, and the space where Hawke should be is empty and cold. It doesn’t startle him awake as it used to, but he still pats the empty space in a daze, begins to lever himself upright.

“Hawke?”

“Here,” comes the response, hushed and low.

It is enough. Fenris shuts his eyes again and rolls over, curls into the shape Hawke has left in the pillows and mattress, and sleeps until the sun is well over the horizon.

When he wakes again, he _aches,_ does not bother looking for the bruises. Every old blow has come back twice-over, and none of his joints feel right. He drank twice as much to achieve this in Kirkwall.

He presses his face back into the pillow and groans.

“It’s your own fault, you know.”

“Shut up, Hawke.”

Hawke snorts softly to himself, then says, “I left some water for you on the dresser.”

He has found it already. “Thank you.”

He drinks half of it slowly, waiting for it to settle before he gets up. Hawke is sitting at the table, flipping through a booklet, so he walks over, carrying his water. Despite his efforts, he can recall the arguments of the previous night all too well. He has no interest in digging it up again, and can only hope Hawke feels much the same.

“The Quarterly?” he says. An innocuous enough question, but his tone is rough. He coughs into his palm and drinks the rest of his water.

Hawke doesn’t look up, but answers quietly, “Shoved beneath the door. A nice gesture, don’t you think?”

He suspects Varric, though it does seem unusually roundabout for him. He declines to read over Hawke’s shoulder, waits with one hip against the table instead, one hand pressed against his aching head. There was a fairly sordid piece in the last one Donnic had shared with him. Perhaps the conclusion is in this issue.

Hawke passes the Quarterly over to him, remarking, “I should put out an ad in one of these. ‘The new and exciting tip from the Champion of Kirkwall. Just lose an arm. An entire arm!’”

Fenris suppresses a wince. “It lacks appeal,” he says instead, laying the issue on the table and flipping it around so he can track the title with one finger, mouthing the words. His eyes feel as though they’ve been filled with sand.

Hawke continues, lolling back in his chair, eyes shutting, “‘Immediate results guaranteed. Feel the worst you have in… months.’”

It’s not worth the read. He passes it back to Hawke and looks up. “Only months? I would have thought years.”

Hawke flips it open again. “Remember when I got hit by that druffalo?”

If only because Hawke complained about it for a month after. Fenris pours himself more water and sits. Stranger things have happened. “Yes. You were fine in a week.”

“But it felt worse at the time. Ten times worse, easily.”

“Really?”

Hawke snorts. “No. Honestly, I feel like I’ve been hit by ten of those.”

He laughs, almost like he’s supposed to, but more quietly than he might have. He is watching his cup so he does not watch Hawke. “It’s not a very persuasive endorsement. Ask Varric to give it the spin treatment before you submit it.”

“Finally, I’ll be a trend-setter. Just what I always wanted.”

“You achieved that a while ago, Hawke. Just last month, I saw someone with your mark,” he says, gesturing across the bridge of his nose.

“What? No. They can’t! That’s trademarked,” Hawke says indignantly. “They need to pay royalties.”

Fenris glances at him, eyebrows raising. “Did you really?”

“Mostly as a joke,” Hawke says grinning, hand flat on the table as he straightens in his chair. “Kept half the nobles in Kirkwall from walking around with it, anyway. Maybe I should check on that. Be a nice influx of coin for a while.”

“Oh? And what of your fortune? I thought Varric said he would look after it for you.”

“I’ve been too afraid to ask,” he says. He does a very good job of sounding light-hearted about it.

Fenris drinks his water. He does not expect there to be any shortage of work for a reliable swordsman. Hawke is recovering. He does not want to be far. This is as much as he has considered.

Not so for Hawke. “Fen,” he says, looking up, all appearance of carelessness lost. “What are we going to do?”

“Stay here until you’re well. Everything else comes from there.” He will make his inquiries with Varric later, if only for Hawke’s peace of mind.

Hawke looks unconvinced. “And after that?”

He hasn’t bothered to consider it. “We will just have to see, won’t we?”

“Maker! No, don’t say that, that’s terrifying,” Hawke tells him, grimacing.

“Very well, then,” he says, setting his cup aside. “Let’s start small. What do you plan to do today?”

Hawke shrugs, not meeting his eyes. “Maybe the kitchens. Some mad elf was in there the other day, baking like a wild thing. Want to see how that turned out.”

Bait. He takes it. “‘Mad elf’?”

Hawke’s mouth is beginning to curve. “Had a wild gleam in her eyes, batter in her hair. Threw a spoon and nearly hit me.” He grins outright, then adds, “Said she only missed because she wasn’t aiming at me, then cackled like Isabela. So a bit mad, I think.”

Fenris eyes him, then says dryly, “After centuries of subjugation, I’m sure we’re all a little mad.”

“Is this the part where I say ‘And may Tevinter rot in hell’?”

“Preferably, yes.”

“And may Tevinter rot in hell!”

“I’ll drink to that.”

He takes the mug of beer he brought Hawke last night, still untouched. He cannot see that any small flies have drowned in it overnight, which is a small blessing. By now it is lukewarm and flat. He drinks it anyway, sets the mug on the table, then says, “Ugh.”

“You deserved that,” Hawke says, and Fenris rolls his eyes, then regrets that as well.

“I suppose I did,” he agrees reluctantly, then falls silent.

Hawke is studying the Quarterly very intently. Likely they are still trying to avoid retreading the argument of the day before, but there has been too much left unsaid. Better to end it quickly than drag it out, he supposes. The pain in his head does not agree, but he proceeds regardless.

“I have a question.”

Hawke glances up at him then immediately looks back down. “The answer is ‘no.’”

“It wasn’t a yes or no question.”

“Can’t it be?” Hawke says with a put-upon wistfulness. “I’ve gotten very good at those.”

“Hawke.”

“If it’s not, I’d like to decline on principle.”

“Hawke,” he says, nearly reaching to set his hand on Hawke’s wrist, but the reach is too far. He resettles his water cup instead, as though that had been what he meant to do all along. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Hawke turns a page, does not look up. “Like I said. I didn’t— I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

Preposterous. He refrains from scoffing, says instead, “And what about me?”

“Yes, this was about you,” Hawke says, an edge coming into his voice.

“No, Hawke. I—“ He hesitates. “I only— Do I matter so little to you, that you would leave me behind?”

Hawke flinches, nearly ripping the Quarterly. _“No.”_

A welcome response, but not satisfactory. “Then why did you?”

“I can’t explain,” Hawke says, sitting back in his chair.

He has learned from experience that there is little Hawke cannot do, once he sets his mind to it. “Try,” he says firmly.

“Do I have to?”

“I would like you to.”

“I would really rather not,” Hawke says, and his voice is cracking. “Or, I mean, I would. I’d like to, I just. It’s a lot. I can’t say it. I don’t know what it is, I can’t say it.”

He should let it go. How unfortunate for them, then, that tenacity is one of the few things he knows through and through.

“Hawke,” he says. “Why did you leave me?”

Later, he will think he should not have said it, that he should have said anything else. In the moment, however, he waits, fists clenched over his knees as Hawke stares down at the table, then says, “I had to.”

“You did not,” he says, and it feels as though the words cut him as they leave his mouth.

Hawke must feel it too, because he flinches, but does not otherwise move, mouth set as he says, voice flat, “I did.”

He should let it go and walk away now. Instead he says, temper beginning to rise along with his voice, “You had _no_ reason to—“

“I told you! I wanted you to be _safe—“_

“Safe and knowing you died alone, without me!”

“I didn’t think it would turn out like this—“

“There was a chance! You knew what you were facing, and you kept it from me! You chose for me!”

 _“You_ would have chosen to _die for me!_ What do you _think_ I would do?”

“If I had been there, perhaps we would not have had to make that choice at all!”

“Oh, no,” Hawke says, jaw setting, eyes brimming. He is blinking hard, and his certainty is unbearable. “Something would have happened. Something always does.”

Fenris snarls, “I know it’s difficult, but try to have some faith in someone other than _yourself_ for once—“

“‘Faith’?” Hawke says hoarsely, gaze coming up with his eyes wide and red-rimmed already. _“‘Faith’?”_

Then all his fury ignites, and he shouts, _“Do you have any idea what happens to my family? Is that enough **faith** for you?”_

 _“You—“_ Fenris begins, then halts, stunned. Dimly, he is aware that he has not shut his mouth, that he is gaping at Hawke, who is glaring back at him, breathing hard as tears spill down his face.

“Do you— Do you even know—“ Hawke says, but does not finish his sentence, mouth closing and pressing thin and wide. He cannot hide the tremor in his shoulders, though. All his anger is deserting him, and he is folding back down into his chair, hiding his face against the table as his arm curls around his head. 

“Hawke,” Fenris manages. He feels petrified, as though some enemy spell had gotten through the lyrium’s wards, rooted him to the floor. “Hawke. Hawke, you don’t have to— Hawke, there’s no need.”

Hawke does not answer, sounds as though he cannot breathe.

“Garrett,” he says, and lifts his feet despite the weight, makes them move. He steps closer to Hawke, setting one hand on the back of his neck.

Hawke jerks away, gasping for air, then immediately huddles over again. “Don’t _touch_ me!” he says. It should be a shout, but only comes out as a strained whisper.

Fenris stays where he is, one hand lifted, other steadying himself on the table. “Garrett,” he says, as evenly as he can. “Garrett, look at me.”

“No,” Hawke says, voice muffled, shoulders still heaving as he tries to take a full breath.

“Garrett, please.”

_“No.”_

His eyes are burning and it is intolerable. He raises his hand to scrub at his face with the back. “Hawke, please look at me.”

Hawke doesn’t answer. He assumes Hawke will refuse again, but waits regardless. It is possible he has done it, pushed Hawke too far, though he never meant to. If Hawke will only look up, he thinks, it could all be well. A foolish thought. But if he did, then they could work from there. He could touch Hawke gently, and they could speak to each other, like rational creatures, and he would not have to be so afraid of asking more of Hawke than either of them can bear.

He is not… _proficient_ at tenderness. Unless, perhaps, it is in their bed. It is much harder without that context, those understandings between them. This is new territory. Who are they now, here?

Not co-conspirators, not only lovers and not only friends, certainly not adversaries. ‘Allies’ would be presuming simultaneously too much and too little. ‘Family’ is—

Fenris looks down. Hawke’s family is not for him to decide. It is something separate and inalienable, and had Hawke not mentioned it, it would not have crossed his mind at all. It is a foreign and heavy word. He would not presume, but for a moment, he suspects he did.

But Hawke is distraught. Undoubtedly he said things he neither fully comprehended nor meant. Which is regrettable, since Hawke is better at this: the understanding of people and what they are looking for, each shift he can make in himself to meet or defy their expectations. It is how he found his fame, and from there, his fortune.

But he cannot do it now. Though he is undoubtedly trying, each setback takes that much more from him, and much about him has irrevocably changed. But even so…

Much about each of them has stayed the same. There have always been tender places that they have worked around with each other. Perhaps they are the same people, and perhaps only their roles are new. They will learn. They are still learning.

Fenris hesitates a moment longer. But if not family, then at the very least Hawke is someone who desperately requires care. And he is someone who cares for Hawke.

“Hawke. Please.”

It is a long, long moment before Hawke lifts his head again, in increments only, as though it had become a weight too heavy to bear. For a while he only looks ahead at the table, then slowly turns towards Fenris.

His eyes are reddened, face streaked with tears and mucus alike, and mouth still slightly parted as he pants for air. He keeps his gaze fixed on Fenris as though he is searching for something, but has no hope of finding it.

He is miserable, has been all the while. Fenris settles a hand on his right shoulder, well away from the wound. When Hawke tries to pull away again, he cups his other hand behind Hawke’s neck and does not let him.

“Hawke,” he says quietly, hands steady though Hawke is still retreating from him. There are many times that Hawke may choose to be alone. He is not sure this should be one of them.

The space available for Hawke to lean away from him is getting smaller. It feels much like a betrayal, but he still steps forward until Hawke can either lean against his hands or his lower chest, but cannot avoid both. His hands are settled on Hawke’s shoulders now, Hawke eyeing him with something unsettlingly close to genuine fear.

Careful and low, he says, “There’s nothing more you need to say. There is nothing to explain.”

Hawke wavers. It’s easy enough to see, in the tremble of his lip, the slight flicker of his eyes, the way his hand turns up and clenches, then unfolds, doesn’t know where to settle itself, where to go.

For his own part, Fenris does not dare let go of Hawke. The tremor beneath his hands is growing stronger, Hawke biting his lower lip, beginning to fold. It is agonizingly slow, but eventually, Hawke begins to tip towards him.

He waits until it is a sure thing, Hawke’s forehead nearly to his chest, before he gathers him in. “You need not justify yourself to me,” he says, one hand running through Hawke’s hair.

He hopes he is sincere as Hawke’s weeping begins afresh. He believes he is sincere, which seems good enough. It is true that he would like to know. But Hawke will speak when he is ready. It is something he can learn to trust. He may never be proficient in the same way Hawke is, but he is learning.

“I am here,” he says, and he cannot stoop to kiss the top of Hawke’s head without breaking the contact between them, so he stands as close as he can, holds as tight as he can. “And I will stay as long as you let me.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Hawke says, voice breaking, nearly unintelligible as he clutches at Fenris’s back.

“I won’t.”

 _“Anything_ else,” Hawke is saying, chest heaving, fingers beginning to dig in painfully just alongside his spine.

Fenris slides his hand to Hawke’s upper arm, says quietly, “Careful.”

Hawke flattens his hand, turning his face against Fenris’s stomach, and repeats, _“Anything,”_ breath hitching, breaking up his words. The front of Fenris’s shirt is already sodden. “You can lie to me about anything else. I don’t care. Just this one thing.”

He would not lie to Hawke about anything, has no reason to. If Hawke were less dismayed, likely he would recall this as well. 

No use in remarking on it. Instead, he says again, “I won’t,” as he combs his hands through Hawke’s hair, then pulls him near. “I am staying.”

—

Hawke calms well before the afternoon. Once he does, he becomes silent and disinterested in most things, lying still in the bed after Fenris managed to cajole then half-carry him over, then settled him with his back to the wall. The shadows have gone even darker beneath his eyes, but he has eaten and drunk and submitted to having his face cleaned with an uncharacteristic lack of complaints, and for now, it is enough.

Fenris is sitting beside him, cross-legged on the bed with a scatter of cards arrayed across his knees. Most of his headache is gone, and was ignorable besides, so he is searching for the marks he is sure Varric has managed to put on them; the dwarf has won too handily at their last few matches. When he looks up, Hawke still has his eyes closed, breathing shallow and slow, hand curled loosely before him.

He watches Hawke a moment, then carefully reaches to take his hand. Hawke hardly flinches, eyes opening slowly then tracking a moment before finding him.

Fenris raises Hawke’s hand to kiss the knuckles, then the palm, not looking away. Hawke lets him do it, arm lifeless and lax for the most part, but his fingertips stir briefly against Fenris’s cheek.

Fenris folds Hawke’s hand between both of his, lowers them to his lap. He should make Hawke drink more water, so his lips will not crack so badly. He should put the cards away, so they do not fold into more obvious tells.

He stays where he is, and after a while, Hawke stirs slightly and very gently squeezes his hand.

“Thank you,” Hawke says, but does not move further. His eyes are listless, face sagging with exhaustion.

“It was no trouble,” Fenris replies.

“You can go if you want to.”

He considers, hands still around Hawke’s. It has lost its calluses and some of its muscle, but it is solid and warm. “Would you like me to?”

Hawke does not answer immediately, gaze dropping to the side. “No,” he says, voice low, and his mouth trembles before he turns to press his face into the pillow. It must strain his shoulder, but he does not remove his hand from Fenris’s. “I wouldn’t.”

Fenris moves closer, shifting so he does not knee Hawke in the ribs and scattering cards as he does, undoubtedly bending some. He can buy a new deck, and Varric will mock him for it, or refuse to bet and Varric will mock him for that as well. No matter.

He could lie down beside Hawke. He could cup one hand behind Hawke’s head. He could try to say anything that meant even half of what he would be trying to convey. He does not think either of them could bear it, whether he succeeded or not.

So he sits with Hawke in silence, and does not let go his hand.

It is not so long before Hawke stirs, of his own volition this time. He lifts his head, hand pulling out of Fenris’s, and inhales slowly, lets it out again in a rush.

“Can I get up?” he says quietly.

Fenris slides off the bed. He will retrieve the cards later.

Hawke levers himself upright, head hanging as he slouches to the edge of the bed, sliding his feet to the floor. He does not move from there, only sits, hand dangling loose before him.

Fenris sits beside him again, close enough to touch, though he does not. He does not say anything. Hawke will speak when he wants to.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke says finally. “I’m just… very tired.”

Fenris hesitates a moment, then says, “I am sure of it.”

“I—“ Hawke breaks off, coughing, then licks his lips, casting about the room. “Where is the water?”

“Here,” Fenris says, getting up. “No, stay where you are.”

Hawke subsides, rubbing his face when he believes Fenris has turned fully away. Fenris goes to the table, searching for a clean cup, then settles for his own from earlier in the morning. At least he knows what was in it before.

He pours the water. There is something uncomfortably similar—he thinks, and not for the first time—about serving someone and caring for them. He thought he made his peace with it long ago.

There is a scuff behind him, and when he turns, Hawke is getting up, hand flat on the dresser beside the bed.

“Hawke,” he says, but Hawke is already walking towards him, slow and unsteady.

“I wanted to get up,” Hawke says, though his feet drag and he lists slightly to his left. He reaches the table and settles heavily into the nearest chair. “And now I want to sit down.”

Fenris decides it is worthless to argue and sets the water in front of him. They made their choices, each of them, and are now living with the consequences. Undoubtedly they will do so for the rest of their lives. He is sure there are worse fates.

Hawke only sips the water, then puts it aside.

Fenris sighs. “You should drink more.”

Hawke makes a face. “Very tired. Don’t want to.”

“Very well.” 

Fenris leans his hip against the table, considering. For a moment, it seems they are back exactly where they started this morning, that inevitably, it will all happen again. 

He suppresses a shudder, then looks aside. Eventually he says, “I am sorry. I have been unkind to you. Recently.”

“It’s fine,” Hawke says, slumped back in his chair. “I haven’t been on my best behavior either.”

Fenris bites his tongue, then says, slow and careful, “I’d like to make it up to you.”

Hawke considers, hand folding and unfolding, then tips his head in a manner he likely thinks is rakish and says, “You could bring me one of those books you’re always reading.”

So, then. He has been forgiven. “I’ve brought you _several_ and you didn’t like any of them.”

Hawke gives a brief wave of his hand, then returns to his exercises. His tone is still not quite right, the glibness ringing hollow, but he is trying. “They’re all very boring. Please bring me some others.”

“If you like.”

“I would like,” Hawke says, corner of his mouth nearly pulling into a smile, but it disappears quickly. “And how am I supposed to make it up to you?”

Fenris looks at him: worn-down, bruised, eyes deep-set and red-rimmed. Earnest always, frequently obstinate, and careful with others in a way he is not careful with himself. Hawke has given him enough already, and had enough taken from him.

“There is no need,” he says, “but I appreciate the thought. That is enough.”

“Is it?”

Apparently Hawke has decided not to take this seriously. “Yes.”

_“Is it?”_

“Stop that.”

Hawke snorts softly, leaning back and shutting his eyes. “You’re no fun.”

“I suppose not.”

Still leaned back, Hawke says, “But I still like you quite a lot, so I guess that counts for something.”

“It does.” He hesitates, then adds, “I am quite fond of you as well.”

“Oh, stop.”

“When,” he begins anyway, then hesitates. There are too many pieces and he must put them in order.

Hawke opens his eyes as he sits upright in his chair again, wary. “No, really, stop. I’m not ready to cry again today.”

“I—“

“Maker,” Hawke says, slouching again. “Nevermind. You’ll just do exactly what you want to do anyway. I shouldn’t even try.”

It stings a bit, but he cannot deny he is also pleased. Hawke waits, looking diminished again, worn down to a poor caricature of himself.

Now he feels guilty, but tries again regardless. “Hawke. When I first received word… that you had been left in the Fade, I was—“

“Upset?” Hawke says. “Furious? I’m getting an ‘incandescent with rage’ sort of feeling here.”

“Can you please—“ Fenris rubs the bridge of his nose, resolves to ignore any further interruptions. Hawke is pushing him. He does not have to be pushed.

“I was lost,” he says. It is the best word, he thinks, for that lurch, the unsteadiness of the ground beneath his feet, the uncomfortably disjointed passage of time, and just as bad or worse: the agonizing slowness of its progression. “I felt… that a part of me had been left there with you.”

He swallows, mouth dry. “I… I do not believe been _shy_ in telling you what you mean to me. And then you were gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Hawke says, head in his hand, elbow hanging over the arm of the chair. “I’m really— I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I don’t know what else you want from me.”

“No, I— You misunderstand. I— Garrett,” he says, and steps closer. Carefully, he closes his hand about Hawke’s wrist, tries to lower it.

“Yes, I know, there it is, see, I’m crying again, are you happy now?” Hawke says, not looking up at him, not pulling away from him, not doing much of anything to either help or hinder him. His breathing has gone uneven and there are indeed tears trailing down his cheeks again.

“Garrett,” Fenris says again, does not step closer, does not touch Hawke further. “I only wanted—“

It is difficult to think it again, to remember again that for a while, Hawke had been gone, and there had been no hope of him coming back. That for all his luck, for all the times he had beaten the odds, he had finally lost. 

“When you were gone,” he says, words quiet, as though he can somehow diminish the reality of it, “I thought then… that I would accept any bargain, pay any price, to have it not be true.”

Hawke’s face is crumpling, all the lines drawn deeper.

Fenris cups one hand behind his head, letting go of Hawke’s wrist. “And here you are.”

“Really, though, let’s not. Can we not?”

“Very well,” he says, though it is insufficient. “I only— I know why you chose as you did. I forgive you.”

Hawke exhales unsteadily, looking haggard and worn. He leans in to rest his head against a clean patch of Fenris’s shirt. “Why do I feel as though I’ve ruined your life?”

Fenris snorts softly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“But I’m so _good_ at it,” Hawke says wistfully, a bare shadow of his usual humor. He has his hand at Fenris’s hip now, hanging on as though he fears Fenris will disappear. “Listen. ‘Garrett Hawke, you handsome scoundrel, who gave you such a beautiful head of hair.’”

He takes a breath and holds it, then continues, stringing the words together unevenly, stumbling along the way. “‘Garrett Hawke, never have I laid eyes on more soft, kissable lips.’ ‘Garrett Hawke, you are the standard by which lesser men learn the meaning of despair.’” He swallows, then adds, voice thickening, “‘Garrett Hawke, you did all right and no one hates you even a little, except for being too charming.’”

His shoulders are sagging, breathing becoming labored, but he is not weeping again. Most likely he has worn himself out, and should rest for a while. 

Fenris puts both hands on his shoulders. “I do not hate you.”

“That wasn’t very good,” Hawke says, voice hollow. His attempts to leaven it fall flat. “Were you listening to me? You should have been taking notes.”

Fenris curves one hand around the back of his neck. “Garrett Hawke, your stunning beauty is only outweighed by your ineptitude at teaching, and I have remained completely illiterate.”

Hawke grunts. “I’ve heard better.”

“I’m sure.”

“Also I know you are _lying,”_ Hawke says, pulling away from him. “I’ve seen you read.”

“I only look at the pictures,” Fenris says, stooping to press a kiss to the top of Hawke’s head.

Hawke makes a soft sound, almost amused. “You think I’m beautiful.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Fenris says, standing upright again.

Hawke glances sidelong up at him, mouth curved slightly. “My beautiful head.”

“It is that.”

Hawke nearly laughs. Then what little mirth he had fades as abruptly as it came, and he only looks tired. This is familiar, the abrupt shift in mood, and how the exhaustion only feels heavier upon its return. How it can be pushed aside for a time, but is never truly gone.

For a moment, Hawke stares at nothing. Then he gives himself a slight shake and shifts in his chair, rolling out his shoulder.

“Well, go on, then. I have a very busy day ahead of me.”

“Oh?”

“Oh yes,” Hawke says, leaning back again. “Full of plans. First, I am going to stare out that window for a while, then maybe try the fire to see if anything changes. Then maybe someone will bring me something to eat, and I can try the window again.”

Hawke is watching him now, wary and ready to retreat at the first sign of pity. Fenris keeps his features composed. “Thrilling.”

Hawke swallows and looks away, but his voice is almost normal. “Isn’t it?”

He puts a hand on Hawke’s shoulder. “No time for a walk today, I suppose?”

“Mm. No. Very busy.”

Carefully, he lifts a finger to stroke Hawke’s cheek. He would like to stay, but they are wearing thin, and he wishes Hawke would not try so hard to play the fool for him. “May I?”

Hawke only leans into the touch. Fenris stoops to kiss his temple, his cheek, then the side of his mouth, light and unhurried at each one. When he lingers, Hawke turns to kiss his jaw. It is a brief touch only, but is still reassuring.

Still here, then. Still his.

“I’ll leave you to your business,” he says, and steps away.

Hawke gives a slight huff. Not a laugh, but where he knows one should go. “Kind of you. What about you?”

Fenris glances down at himself, then back at Hawke. “First, I am going to change my shirt.”

“It _has_ seen better days, hasn’t it?”

“Haven’t we all,” Fenris says wryly before he can think better of it.

Hawke laughs, though, and it is a sharp brittle sound. “Very true.”

Fenris hesitates. Perhaps he should stay after all. But he doubts it would end well, and Hawke would likely appreciate some time to himself. After a moment, he says slowly, “Are you sure there’s nothing more you want of me?”

Hawke glances up at him. His eyes are still reddened and his lips are still dry and cracking, but he is more alert now, somewhat more likely to take advice when given. “You could bring me a book?”

“Drink more water,” Fenris says, heading to where he left his boots by the door. “I will bring you a book.”

—

Freshly attired, Fenris makes his way to the library. The path is a familiar one by now, through the gardens to the main hall, and a brief turn past the ever-growing fresco. It is fine work, but he does not linger.

A familiar face passes, and he nods to her. Varric badgered him into signing her book after all, and she has been of great assistance. There is no one else he recognizes, or at least no one else who bothers to catch his eye, and he is nearly to the library when he hears it.

The accent stops him even before he registers the unfamiliarity of the voice. Male, it seems, and high-born, vowels of the trade-tongue carried closer to the nasal passages and roof of the mouth than most Fereldans and Marchers. He has heard it often enough in Seheron.

Altus. Almost assuredly a mage; there is a certain ring to the self-assured authority that is nearly unmistakable. Age is more difficult to place, but younger than most of the magisters he has known. So an apprentice, then. Perhaps even an heir. Either way, a mage assured in his position, in his prestige and power, and if not, then willing to do anything to be so. He knows the type all too well.

He steps back, hand tight on the banister. One step, then two, then three, not taking his eyes from the landing the entire time. When he is safely out of sight, he turns and walks the rest of the way down the stairs. He walks, and does not run. He will bring Hawke a book at some point, but perhaps not one from this library, and certainly not at this particular moment.

He exits the main hall. He was not inside so long that his eyes need time to adjust, so he only looks one way, then the other, and begins walking to the tavern. Varric was not at his usual haunt by the fire, so perhaps he will be there instead, or the Iron Bull.

He goes around the training yard, where it looks as though some of the newer recruits are testing their blades on each other. Their footwork is sloppy, and they swing stiff, only from their shoulders with little to no care for the elbows and wrists. Beyond them, a woman has sequestered herself by the main hall, training alone. Her form is unfamiliar, with a narrower stance, but the power behind her swings is formidable and her footwork is good.

“Cassandra,” a soft voice says just behind him, and he starts. An exceptionally bony human is standing just behind him, shoulders loose and hands soft, face overshadowed by a giant hat. The voice and what features he can see are young, though.

“I see. Thank you.” 

He had not meant to stare. If he was staring, he was not aware of it, just as he was unaware of the young human’s approach. He has no wish to become further acquainted, and begins to walk away.

The young human persists. “You sound like a templar.”

“Excuse me?”

“The song. It’s in your skin.”

Fenris eyes him. “Right.”

He is turning away again as the boy adds, “It should be damp, the jungle, but with the wind from the sea blowing in just right from the sea, camp is pleasant and dry. No one should have been able to find you.”

A chill runs through him and he turns back, looking over the boy, more intently now. Young, weak-chinned, watery-eyed, still growing into his joints, stance nonthreatening, but close enough that it would be troublesome if that changed. It would be unpleasant if it changed, but he is prepared nonetheless.

As though sensing it, the boy steps backwards. His unease grows.

“Who told you about me.”

He hadn’t even told Hawke the whole story. Hawke would not have told Varric regardless. It was not in the book. The human boy can’t know this. No one should know this.

“Your veins did, the ones they cut into your skin. They hurt you, and keep hurting. You can’t hear the singing, but you can always hear the screams. He made you into something you didn’t think you wanted to be.”

“Get away from me!” Fenris spits, backing up. No mage has ever professed to hear anything in lyrium besides the singing. No one has ever been able to pull information from it.

The creature that looks like a boy grits his teeth in confusion, hands lifting. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this!”

—

Fenris is in the sun, in the courtyard, heading where? To the library, he thought, yet it feels as though he just left there. Beside him, a young human is saying, “I can help you.”

Fenris glances at him, then frowns. He is a stranger, and does not look well. Behind him, the sound of a sword striking a practice dummy stops.

“I do not believe I need your help,” Fenris informs him, as kindly as he is able. After a moment, he decides to add, “Are you seeking a healer?”

The young man looks at him slantwise. “Are you?”

“Ah. No. I am not.” At the moment, he is seeking an exit from this interaction.

The human steps back into his field of vision, just at the very edges. “You might, if you thought they’d be of any use. But no one can touch what hurts you, not even you. The echoes are a sea, and you’re drowning in them.”

He’s never liked poets. 

“Yes, thank you,” he says, and turns away again, but the young man persists.

“I can help you. I can help you forget.”

He halts. There is a strange, unsettling familiarity to this moment. It comes back to him in pieces only.

“I’ve seen you before,” he says slowly, working through it. Something made him leave the library. _Magister,_ he thinks, jaw clenching as he scans his surroundings, keeping the stranger in view. But he is not sure how he arrived here.

Sickened, he traces the edges of the new gap in his memory. He did come from the library. He can remember the sun and the gleam of watery eyes beneath a wide-brimmed hat, and, for an unknown reason, fear. 

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” the boy says, voice soft and sure, and with that, Fenris is ready to spring, hands lighting. He has not survived so long by second-guessing himself.

 _“What have you done.”_ He is unarmed, but well within range. Demons have hearts like anything else.

“Ser! Stand down!” There are footsteps behind him, quick and purposeful. Not a run, but a very brisk walk.

So it has allies. He steps back to bring them both into view, and it is a woman, sword and shield at the ready, gaze thunderous and dark. “Cole,” she adds, but her eyes do not leave Fenris. “Leave him alone.”

“Please do,” Fenris adds, nearly spitting the words.

“But I can make it better,” the creature protests, fervent and earnest. They are always earnest.

He is responding before he can decide whether it is wise; his fear has always given way to anger. His voice is rising, nearly a shout as he snarls, _“No one_ can make it _better!”_

His markings are still alight, burning from his fingertips to his shoulders, and the woman has her sword down, all the appearance of non-threatening, but instead a low guard.

“Ser, please calm down. Cole, I need you to go.”

“Why are you speaking to it?” he demands of her, but makes no move. She is closer to him than she is to the demon, he is unarmed, and she is ready.

The demon’s hands raise then lower again, an uncertain fluttering gesture. “He’s hurt—“

“Save your sympathy—“

“Many people are hurt, Cole,” she says, keeping them both in view now. She speaks as though shepherding a wayward child. “This one doesn’t need you right now.”

“It doesn’t belong here!”

“You’re right,” it tells him. “But you do.”

His lip curls, but he does not answer it further. He hates it when they speak in riddles. He eyes the distance between them, and the woman watches him do it, readjusts her stance. 

“Cole,” the woman says, a steel note entering her tone as she begins to scowl.

“You’re _worried_ about me,” it says, as though in wonder. It is a good facsimile, and all the worse for it. Her scowl deepens.

“Nothing good comes of speaking with demons,” Fenris warns her. She should know already, but there have been proud and desperate fools before, and there will be again. He should kill it, for both their sakes. She should move and let him kill it.

“It wouldn’t make you happy,” the creature tells him, and he flinches, but holds his ground. Wrong. It is wrong, but it continues regardless. “It never did.”

 _“Stop,”_ he says. Sword or no, he thinks he can reach it in time.

The woman is eyeing him again, hand tightening on her sword. “Cole, _leave.”_

It does not move for a moment, gaze distant. Then its head lifts, and it says, “Cassandra, he doesn’t want to forget the ocean. But can you tell him? He found dry land again. He found open sky.”

“I will tell him.”

“Don’t bother,” Fenris says scornfully. He knows full well where he is, landlocked on a mountain strewn with horrors. The woman makes a disgusted noise, and he scowls back at her.

The demon watches them both, gaze shifting slowly between them. Then it rubs at the back of its neck, as though it were Varric trying to escape a meeting with another of his ilk, and says, low and rough, “I should go.”

Two or three steps and he could certainly reach its heart. The woman’s sword lifts, and she says, “I agree.”

It hesitates a moment longer, then says, “Goodbye,” in a doleful tone, all approximation of Varric gone. Neither he nor the woman respond as it turns and begins to trudge slowly away. After a few steps, it pauses again, then says quietly over its shoulder, _“I_ think you could be friends.”

_“Go.”_

They watch it until it turns a corner and is out of sight. The woman lowers her sword and relaxes. Fenris does not. When she goes to put her sword and shield away, he turns and begins walking again. The tavern is close. He can escape there, and possibly never come out again.

He does not get far before there are footsteps behind him again and the woman comes back into view, already scowling at him. Evidently he is being an annoyance to her.

Good.

She stops herself before she puts a hand on his shoulder, which is wise of her. Instead she plants herself in his path, then jerks her head.

“Walk with me,” she says, and it is not a request. Fenris bristles, but he is a guest here, and has already benefited much from their goodwill. Or, he suspects, an extension of their regard for Varric. Hawke is also a guest here, and continues to benefit much from their goodwill, whatever the source.

He walks.

She leads him past the tavern, towards a stairway he has always avoided for the rubble strewn about its base. Some of the rubble has been cleared away, and scaffolding set up, though there are no workers present.

He looks askance at her. She takes the stairs two at a time. “Come along.”

He should abandon her for the tavern. “Very well,” he says, clipping the words, and follows at a much slower pace.

They reach the landing, and she examines the tower it rises into. “The stairs are sound,” she says, “but the tower requires some work before we can put it to use. We discourage casual access to these sorts of areas, though.”

He does not bother replying.

“So it is quiet here,” she adds, then paces over to examine the gap where the wall crumbles away to nothing. She toes the base and grumbles to herself, then says, “You are here with the Champion, are you not?”

He can’t see how it’s any of her business. “I am.”

She turns to him again, then nods. “Cassandra Pentaghast,” she says, and does not ask him his name. He recognizes hers.

“The Seeker,” he says. In any other situation, he thinks, he might have smiled. “So you’re the one who managed to corner Varric.”

“I am,” she replies, and seems rueful rather than smug. Varric does have that way about him. “Are you displeased?”

“Not by that.”

Her face is still drawn into a frown, but he cannot tell if she sounds annoyed or amused when she says, “Understandable, given the circumstances.”

“Yes,” he says, examining the tower then the empty practice yard before eyeing her again. The demon is nowhere in sight. “Is this another of your interrogations, or am I free to leave?”

She is scowling at him again, then shakes her head and mutters under her breath, “He warned me about this.”

“I heard that.” From how she starts, he is sure she did not intend him to. He folds his arms. “You don’t speak to many elves, do you? Our hearing is quite good.”

“No,” she admits, and he waits. “There are not many in the ranks of the Chantry.”

He snorts. “Small wonder, when elves are barred from the priesthood and Shartan was struck from the Chant. And yet, you will find as many believers in an alienage as on any of your more ‘respectable’ streets.”

Her eyebrows raise slightly. “You’re quite well-informed.”

“For an elf or a slave?” he retorts, and he can see her clench her jaw for a moment before she answers, “For a fugitive with many other concerns on his mind these past few years.”

He doubts she has ever been a fugitive in her life. “You should stop listening to Varric’s stories,” he advises, and she starts again, as though poked by a pin. Her scowl deepens.

“I had only intended to ask after your well-being,” she says stiffly.

“How thoughtful of you,” he says, tone just as flat, and turns to leave.

“Wait!” she says, falling into step with him. He slows. He does not think he can outpace her, and doubtless she knows the keep’s layout much better. “I was also hoping that you would share your thoughts on the events in Kirkwall.”

“Aveline says that the new Chantry is about complete. No one has volunteered to replace the statues in the Gallows. Try asking someone who has been there more recently.”

She makes a frustrated noise, then steps squarely in his path, jaw set and eyes hard. She is significantly taller, so he halts but does not back away. “You know what I mean.”

“Ask someone else,” he says.

“There is no one else.”

 _“Anyone_ else,” he spits, flinging his left hand wide to encompass the whole of the keep. “I’m sure they all have much to say on the matter, and it is all the same thing. Mistakes piled upon mistakes until a madman tore it all down!”

“And yet you fought beside the Champion at the Gallows.”

He takes the step that closes the last of the distance between them so he can glare up at her. “That was _not_ a mistake on my part,” he says, throat tight.

There are footsteps behind him, and the Seeker glances up and nods to the approaching before looking down at Fenris again. “Some might say you were complicit.”

He ignores the footsteps; he has given up on quiet and privacy here long ago. “Some might say that allowing a magister, a spy, and a _demon_ under the same roof is to play host to a nest of _vipers.”_

The footsteps grow quicker as open dismay crosses her face, then a hand cuts between them. Fenris turns, stepping back so he cannot be touched, and comes face-to-face with a Dale, finely dressed and livid.

“Watch what you say about my friends,” the Dale says, voice tight and clipped with anger. Even accounting for this, he does not speak like any Dalish that Fenris has heard, carrying the words high at the back of his throat like Fereldan nobility. So. The vaunted leader of the Inquisition.

The Seeker has stepped back, just behind the inquisitor’s right shoulder, and looks as though she is expecting a headache shortly. “Inquisitor—“

“Not now, Cassandra. I believe the gentleman has an issue with my choice of companions.”

“You should choose your ‘friends’ with more care,” Fenris informs him, and does not gut him, though he is within easy reach. It would help nothing, even if the idea is satisfying.

The inquisitor’s gaze measures him coolly up and down, and he does not step out of range. “Aren’t you friends with the Champion? I would have thought a… diverse circle of acquaintances was not beyond you.”

Fenris snaps, “If you know so much about past, then perhaps you should also have some idea of which ‘acquaintance’ only sees you as a pawn to further their own ends.”

The inquisitor continues eyeing him, then his mood seems to lift abruptly, anger gone as though it had never been. The glance he flicks Fenris, however, is nothing but goading as he says lightly, disarmingly, “Solas, definitely.”

Fenris takes a step back. The Seeker scowls and shifts her weight. “I wish you wouldn’t joke like that, Inquisitor.”

The madman turns to cock his head at her, hands folding behind his back. “Why? What’s he going to do, _lecture_ me to death? Please.”

“He would have to get you to sit still first,” she replies, gaze flicking briefly skyward. Fenris suspects she would roll her eyes in other company. Instead she nods to him and says, “Inquisitor, this is Fenris of Kirkwall. Fenris, Inquisitor Lavellan.”

He has never been of anywhere before, but he has no time to decide whether he likes or dislikes it. As though they had not just exchanged thinly veiled insults a moment before, the inquisitor is extending a hand.

“Lethas, please. You may have heard of me.” It is slightly wry, almost self-deprecating, bearing as correct and polished as what passes for manners in a Free Marches court. The invitation is clear: Start over, and know one of the fastest rising stars in Thedas by name, not title. A powerful connection, to be sure.

He left Hawke in the Fade.

“Inquisitor,” Fenris says, and makes no further move. The inquisitor withdraws his hand, but his smile, if anything, grows wider. 

Ah. A narcissist. Fenris refrains from making this observation out loud. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he says instead. It is what the inquisitor is due. Nothing less, and nothing more. He wishes Hawke were well enough to travel.

He is turning to go when the inquisitor says brightly, “No trouble at all, I’m sure. Have the accommodations been to your liking?”

The conversation should have been over. He rummages for another one-off pleasantry. “Well enough.”

The inquisitor is relentless. “Well, I know how drafty it can get in these mountain halls. Do—“

“Inquisitor,” the Seeker says sharply, brows drawn together. “A moment of your time.”

The inquisitor’s attention fixes to her and all his hard-edged geniality melts away, replaced by what would be a benign interest if his polite smile did not so closely resemble a smirk. The Seeker does not look impressed. For his part, Fenris stays perfectly still. Unpredictability has always been troublesome in a mage.

“Excuse us,” the Seeker says to Fenris, and turns so her shoulder cuts between them. To the inquisitor, she says, “I have been meaning to suggest an expansion to the stables, but Master Dennet may be able to explain it best. Shall we see if he has a moment?”

“Oh, Cassandra,” the inquisitor says. “So thoughtful.” He sketches a quick bow to Fenris, who manages to nod back instead of sneering. “Give the Champion my best.”

The Seeker inhales sharply, but Fenris does not respond, jaw locked and hands clenched into fists, lyrium burning. The inquisitor’s expression flickers, as though he were surprised, but he does not flinch. 

_“Excuse us,”_ the Seeker says again, but her eyes are fixed on the inquisitor. He gives a slight shrug, then looks towards her and offers his elbow.

“Shall we?”

She declines, and begins to walk, away from the crumbling tower, and the inquisitor nods to Fenris and says, “Make yourself at home,” with an expansive swing of his arm before he hurries to catch up with her.

Fenris turns his back on them and heads immediately towards the tavern.

Varric is at the bar. Convenient, since he has no coin on him. Frustrating, because Varric will likely try to make him talk. He drops onto the stool besides Varric and glances at him. Varric rolls his eyes, then laughs and lifts one hand. “Hey Cabot! One for my friend here.”

Cabot hardly looks over before he pulls a draft from one of the kegs behind him and clunks it beside Fenris. “The usual. Not enough sleep and a bad attitude.”

Varric is chuckling, but Fenris only takes a drink and sets the tankard down again half-empty. Cabot raises his eyebrows, then drifts to the other end of the bar, where another patron awaits him. Varric watches him go. “So. What’s got you in a mood today?”

“I’ve met your inquisitor.”

“Oh?”

He would like Cabot to come back, as his tankard is now empty. Unfortunately, Cabot has his back to them. Sourly, he adds, “And his Altus.”

Varric goes very still. “Oh no.”

“I did not speak with him. Who is he?”

“Thank the Maker for small blessings, at least,” Varric mutters, rubbing a hand over one eyebrow. “His name’s Dorian. House Pavus, if that means anything to you. You won’t like him.”

Pavus was in decline at last memory, weakened by a hint of scandal and the resultant distancing of its heir. It was a very long time ago. He has no desire to recall anything further. “You might have warned me.”

“I forgot.”

“’Forgot.’”

Varric sighs. “Actually, I was hoping you’d never even see each other. There. Happy?’

“Never.”

“I knew I missed you for a reason. Listen, he’s not a threat, he’s just a kid—“

 _“There is no ‘just’ with a magister,”_ Fenris snarls, and Varric makes a vague and futile shushing gesture with both his hands, then glances up, expression shifting to surprise.

Fenris turns as a tankard thunks onto the bar behind him, an elf with straw-thatch hair and a broad grin dropping into the seat. “Are we taking the piss out of Dorian, then?” she says, eyes glinting. “My turn! Stupid hair! Talks like a ponce.” Her gaze sharpens and she eyes Fenris. “Who’re you supposed to be?”

“Ah, Sera, have you met Fenris? Friend of mine?”

“Oh!” she says, then laughs. “Friend of _yours._ Sure.” She looks Fenris over again, then begins to frown. “Maker’s tits! What is it with everyone and being so _elfy_ all the time?”

He scowls and pushes his seat back from the bar. “Excuse me if I have offended.”

“No, no, it’s fine, stay where you are,” Varric says, holding out a hand before leaning to glance past him. “He’s not Dalish, Sera.”

“Then what’s with those?” she says, jerking her chin at Fenris and gesturing to her face. “The whatsits. Veil-ass leeeeaaaan.”

“They are a legacy of my time as a slave,” Fenris says flatly, before Varric can start, and the words are still chokingly bitter. Better to say them than keep them down, he supposes. He does not pull his chair back towards the bar. “My master believed there was something to be desired in his bodyguards are they were, and so made me.”

“Right,” she says, propping a chin on one fist. “Runaway, weren’t you?” To Varric, she says, “I listen! Sometimes. When it’s interesting.” Her gaze slides back to Fenris. “Tevinter, yeah?”

“Yes.”

She turns her head aside and spits. “Fucking fancy magey arseholes! Thinking they can mess with _people!”_

“Just so,” he says, and slides out of his seat. The company may prove to be tolerable, but he is in no mood to find out. “Excuse me.”

Varric’s new friend makes no effort to keep her voice down as he leaves. “What’s with him?”

“Leave him alone, Sera,” Varric says quietly, sounding tired. Fenris does not look back. “It’s not a good time for him right now.”

Fenris slams the door shut behind him, and goes to find somewhere less crowded.

—

She finds him later in a defunct room overlooked by the latest construction project, past signs warning passersby to keep away. The sloshing alerts him, but he suspects that is only because she lets it. He does not look as she steps through the doorway.

“What do you want?”

“Wrong question!” Sera tells him, stepping closer and settling on a beam as a makeshift seat an arm’s length away. “Me next. Want to share?”

“No,” he says, but she clears her throat. When he looks, she is holding out a bottle of wine, half full. “Yes.”

He takes a drink, does not give the bottle back and she does not ask for it. They sit in silence for a moment, then she shivers. “Cold up here. What’s with that? Can’t brood somewhere with a fire, like a reasonable person?”

“I’m not brooding.”

“Sure. And I’m not sitting here, saying you’re brooding.”

He rolls his eyes and takes another drink. “Why are you here?”

She shrugs, then holds out her hand. “Give.” When he passes it over, she takes a drink. “Heard about your hand thing.”

“Oh good,” he says, and considers how much effort he is willing to expend to get up.

“Could do amazing things with that.”

“Yes,” he says, shifting to draw his feet towards him. “Of course. ‘Amazing.’”

“Is he dead?”

Fenris stills. “Who?”

“What’s his name. The one that did this to you.”

“Yes,” he says, and something burns inside his chest. Satisfaction, he thinks. Or perhaps anger. Even now, still anger. Satisfaction would be preferable.

She whoops, then grins wide and points at him. “You?”

He resettles himself and smiles back at her. “Yes.”

She lets out a wild peal of laughter, taking another swig before handing him the bottle again. _“Good!_ Knew I liked you. Proper inspiration, you are. Making sure nobs get theirs.”

“It was only what seemed necessary at the time.” He takes a drink, then eyes the remainder in the bottle. “Sera, wasn’t it?”

“Keep it,” she says, producing another bottle from behind the beam. This one had been crudely recorked, and she yanks the cork out again with her teeth, then spits it to a far corner. “Yech! Necessary, nothing. Everyone’s all talk talk talk and faking humble.”

“Interesting, coming from a member of the Inquisition.”

“Well, what do you think I’m here for, then?” she replies, nonplussed. “I see an arse that needs kicking, I kick it. Doesn’t matter if it’s templars, magey wights, or Cor-tittyfuss. Someone needs to look out for the little people, keep everyone in line.”

“And who keeps you in line?” he asks, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. The less said about good intentions gone sour, the better.

Sera laughs again. “No one!” she shouts, and takes a great swig of her wine. “And nothing! Try it sometime.”

He looks at her again, more carefully this time. Younger than he thought, with her back straight, shoulders shifting with one cocked higher than the other, hands moving constantly. For all her brashness, he suspects a soft heart. He does not know what she wants from him.

Regardless, he says, “I might,” and finishes his wine, then holds a hand out to her. “Give.”

She snorts and passes the second bottle over. “Pushing your luck, you.”

It is enough to give him pause, but he takes a drink regardless and says, “It has held so far.”

“Only way to do it,” she agrees, then gestures. He hands the bottle over willingly, and something inside his chest begins to unwind. It is an acceptable way to spend the rest of the afternoon, he decides, and stays.


	6. Chapter 6

A month later and the last vestiges of the war have already guttered out. Fenris supposes that’s what happens when one side is subsumed by the relentless growing weight of the Inquisition and the other corrupts itself in a desperate bid for power, but it still seems anti-climatic. New troubles will begin shortly, of course, but he has no interest in them.

Hawke is still having nightmares.

Fenris is in the garden when the Chantry mother stiffens, looking over his shoulder, and he turns, has heard it as well: Screaming, faint but uncomfortably familiar. He does not bother to excuse himself and bolts.

He take the stairs two at a time, and scrapes his hands partway up to arrest his fall when he misjudges a step. For a moment, he clambers up on all fours before regaining his footing. It is unseemly, but necessary.

When he reaches the landing, the screaming has stopped but a templar is already on the move. She halts when she sees him, mouth tight and eyes wary, then jerks her head towards the last doorway. “Go on, then.”

It is neither kindness nor courtesy, but he goes to try the handle anyway. It turns, but it makes his palms itch and the door hardly moves in its frame. Force magic, he suspects. Nothing else in the room should be heavy enough. “Hawke,” he calls. “Let me in.”

No answer, but something moves suddenly within the room, and when he presses an ear to the door, he can hear labored breathing. Hawke must be alive in there.

“Can’t smite him if I can’t see him,” the templar says, and Fenris’s hands clench around the door handle.

_“Don’t.”_

She holds up her free hand, other steadying the sword at her hip. “Just letting you know your options.”

He ignores her. “Hawke,” he says again. “Are you in there?” A foolish question; of course he is. Fenris tries the door handle again, and as before, it turns but to no avail. “Will you let me in?”

There is a pained sound somewhere in the room, not a whimper and not a moan. Fenris rattles the handle, then pounds on the door. “Hawke!”

He could break a window, but it is still cold, and there is broken glass to consider. Ghosting through the door is a possibility, but he has never tried (despite Isabela’s pleas) and suspects that the risks may outweigh the reward. There is no locking mechanism to remove from the door. But perhaps the hinges. He eyes them, then the templar.

“I’m just here in case he turns into an abomination,” she informs him, arms folding. “Nothing more.”

For one searing moment, he hates her, nearly shaking with the force of it. Then it passes. She is not important enough to waste his attention on. Something of it must have shown on his face though, for she sets her feet, one hand settling on her hilt again. Laughable, to think she has a chance against him.

He disregards her and examines the door again. Someone is approaching from the stairs, and he must decide if removing the hinges is a viable tactic before anyone can interfere. The frame may suffer some damage as well, but removing even one would be a great help.

His hands are lighting when someone clears her throat past the templar, who startles to attention.

“Madame de Fer,” the templar says, adding a belated salute after the woman eyes her coolly.

“As you were,” she says and breezes past, immaculate in grays. 

She stops before Fenris, clearly waiting, and he does not move. “Why are you here?”

For a moment, she only considers him, then says, “I am the Court Enchanter of Orlais, Vivienne de Fer, First Enchanter of Montsimmard, and I am here to offer my assistance. If I may?”

No staff, clothing and jewelry Orlesian but accent clearly not. Even before the fall of the Circles, she looks to have done well for herself. She knows her power, and is used to wielding it.

He nearly says no. He does not need her help. He begins to try the door again, then clenches his fists; he already knows it will not open. She waits. When he turns to look at her, she holds his gaze with no hint of pique or impatience.

He steps aside, jaw tight, and offers her a half-bow, just on the edge of curt, eyes fixed on hers the entire time. She smiles at that, small and amused, one brow raising slightly. “Thank you, my dear.” 

Then she takes one step forward and pivots to fix her attention on the doorway. She has no staff, no ornamentation that is anything but decoration, hands languid at her sides. Everything dangerous about her is in the way she regards the doorway, head high and eyes measuring.

After a moment, she raises a hand and snaps her fingers. Something he cannot quite feel breaks inside the room, and he lunges past the enchanter and for the door. It opens easily now, and he scans the room for Hawke.

What he can see of the room is in disarray, table and chairs scattered about the far wall, though the hearth and desk appear untouched, perhaps sheltered by the wall of the fireplace. Nothing is burning unduly, so he ignores it.

Hawke is a dark shape on the floor by the dresser, huddled against it, hand over his eyes. 

“Hawke?”

“Not right now.” 

He hesitates, then carefully makes his way to sit beside Hawke, who shrinks from him.

“No, really. I’m not interested. No, thank you.”

“Where do you think you are, Ser Champion?”

Fenris is on his feet, hands lighting. The enchanter has followed him in, and is standing by the doorway. She shuts the door behind her, and Hawke flinches, but does not lift his head.

“Who?”

“Madame de Fer, or so I have been told,” Fenris says, clipping the name.

Hawke is silent a moment, then says, “Vivienne?”

She is looking over the room, utterly disinterested. “If you must. Have you any water?”

“I don’t know,” Hawke says, voice tight. “I don’t know.”

“On the desk or by the fire,” Fenris says, still standing. 

She walks out of his line of sight, and he tenses, then settles by Hawke again, shaking out his hands. Hawke shifts and sniffs, then rubs his face.

“Novel combination, you two.”

Fenris waits. When Hawke does not volunteer anything further, he says slowly, “Do you believe you are still in the Fade?”

“I don’t know anymore.” Hawke has turned his face towards the dresser. “Hard to tell. I wish you’d stop asking.”

He considers the enchanter’s first question then tries it again. “Where do you think you are?”

“You’re an _ass,”_ Hawke says, last word cracking, beginning to shudder. “I don’t know. _I don’t know.”_ He sniffs again, then adds, most likely from spite, “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Fenris sighs. The mage is moving something around the corner, but he doesn’t bother to ask. He settles against the bed, sorting through what he knows. “If this were the Fade, that would make me a demon.”

_“Obviously.”_

“It is not obvious to me,” Fenris says, then presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose. Frustration will get him nowhere. Slowly, he says, “Hawke, I would like to help you. What can I do for you?”

“Go _away,”_ Hawke says, voice cracking, bundling himself tighter in the corner between the bed and the dresser. “Leave me _alone.”_

Fenris swallows hard, throat tight. For such a large man, Hawke can fold himself so small. As gently as he can, he says, “I am not going to do that.”

“Then what good does _that_ do?” Hawke says, voice rising to a wail, then he inhales harsh and unsteady, says, “No, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. It’s all right. It’s fine.”

“Hawke?”

“Do what you like, it’s fine.”

From the hearth, the enchanter says, “Ser Fenris.”

Fenris sees no point in getting up for her and scowls at the far wall instead. He did not tell her his name. “What?”

“Would you be so good as to open a window? It’s a bit stuffy in here.”

He does not think so, but he doubts she would say it without purpose. He stands and turns to open the window above the bed.

At the sound of the sash rattling against the window frame, Hawke’s head comes up, and he is still save for the harshness of his breathing. Then he stands unsteadily and without a word, scrambles up onto the bed and for the window. Fenris slides out of his way, then nearly reaches for him as he drapes himself over the windowsill, nearly half out, head hanging as he gulps in air like a solid thing, like he has been drowning, like food when he has been without a meal in days. It would be unwise, though. Hawke would not appreciate it at the moment.

Fenris sits on the edge of the bed and puts his face in his hands. The mage is still meddling with something over at the far end of the room, but he cannot bring himself to care. He thinks Varric has mentioned her, once or twice. If there are any negative repercussions, she can be Varric’s problem. He drops his hands and waits.

It does not take so long as he had feared for Hawke’s breathing to ease. When he turns to look, Hawke is resting his head on the sill, arm still over the side, whole body sagging as though it were the only thing holding him up.

“Hawke?” It is completely inadequate, worse than useless.

Hawke hardly stirs. Then, very quietly, he says, “Skyhold. The Frostbacks. Near Haven. West of Lothering. Not there anymore.” Then he shivers and adds plaintively, “Why is it always so cold here?”

The words are thin and faltering as he says them; he hardly has the heart for his own jokes, if that even is one. Quietly, Fenris says, “Come away from the window, Hawke.”

For a wonder, he does, moving slow and deliberate as he shuts the window, then turns to shuffle carefully to the edge of the bed. He sits beside Fenris, then exhales heavily, head bowing. He hasn’t looked so tired in years.

When Fenris reaches to set a hand against his back, Hawke flinches. Fenris jerks his hand away, folds both in his lap. “I am sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Hawke says, shaking his head, breathless again.

There is a slight rhythmic clink from the desk on the other side of the hearth, then the enchanter re-emerges, mug and cloth in hand. “Tea, Champion?”

“You can call me Hawke,” he says wearily, looking up at her. “Everyone else does.”

“Perhaps,” is all she says before she wraps the sides of the mug in the cloth and offers it to him.

For a moment, he looks at the mug as though he has forgotten what it is for, then holds out his hand to accept it. He does not take the handle, wraps his fingers around the body of the mug instead.

“Warm,” he says, as though surprised. When Fenris tenses, looking from mug to enchanter, Hawke glances at him, manages a slight lift of his eyebrows.

Fenris grimaces back, shakes his head. Amused, the enchanter says, “I believe he is afraid I will poison you, Ser Champion.”

Hawke considers the cup blankly, then says, “Oh.” After a moment, he adds, “Not your style, I think,” then takes a sip before Fenris can stop him.

Fenris gives it up, settling back and watching the enchanter closely. Not lounging but perfectly at ease, she raises an eyebrow at him, then asks Hawke, “And what, pray tell, would my ‘style’ be?”

Hawke makes a face at the tea, but takes another sip regardless. “Too sweet,” he says then, “Mint. You wouldn’t like it,” to Fenris. To the enchanter, he says, “I feel as though you’d write several carefully worded letters and two months later, someone _else_ would poison me, for perfectly understandable reasons that have nothing to do with you. Does that sound about right?”

She smiles. “Your estimation of my abilities is as gratifying as always, if extravagant.”

“No poison, then?”

“No poison.”

“But you _would_ ruin my family name?”

“My dear, there’s little I can do to your name that you haven’t already done yourself.”

Fenris sits straighter, hands clenching.

“Oof,” Hawke says, miming a little shot gesture, then winces as tea spills over the side of the mug. He puts the mug on the dresser to wipe his hand dry on his shirt. “Felt that one.”

“Perhaps a table,” the enchanter suggests.

“If you like. Threw it somewhere over there, though.” Hawke makes a vague gesture towards the far end of the room.

Fenris is about to stand, but the enchanter says, “Allow me.”

She hardly even raises a hand this time, only turns to look as the table slides back towards the center of the room, chairs righting themselves as they do the same. It is a tidy display of both power and control, and deeply unnecessary.

Hawke shivers, then rubs his ears. “I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

“Unwelcome company, I assume?” 

“No, much worse. _Persistent_ unwelcome company.”

“Unfortunate,” Fenris agrees, and does not look at the enchanter, who chuckles to herself but does not comment. 

Hawke catches his gaze, and though he does not smile, something eases at the corners of his mouth. His eyes are still shadowed, shoulders still bowed.

“Would you like a hand?” Fenris says.

“Got one, but I’d like two.”

He rolls his eyes to the ceiling. Hawke laughs at him, breath coming uneven and ragged, then stops abruptly. The enchanter reaches over to take his mug, and he makes a brief gesture, as though he will reach after it. She ignores him and carries it away to the table.

Hawke sighs, then sets his hand flat on the dresser.

“Do you want help?” Fenris says again, voice low, and Hawke does not reply, only shifts his weight to use the dresser as a support.

He is unsteady when he stands, a faint tremor running through him, but he takes a breath, then makes his way to the table. Fenris closes the window before he gets up and follows, taking the seat beside him. Uninvited, the enchanter circles around the table to sit across from Fenris, and he frowns down at his hands, then glances to his left, where Hawke is sitting.

Hawke is slumped slightly in his chair, leaning over his mug to breathe in the steam with his eyes shut. “Don’t watch me,” he says hoarsely. “I can feel both of you watching.”

“Would you like to be alone?”

Hawke scoffs, propping his face in his hand, heel of his palm rubbing around his eye socket. It still pains him, though the bruising is nearly gone. “I don’t get to be alone,” Hawke says. It could have been lighthearted, but his mockery is bitter. “I sleep alone and get up to mischief, have—“ He inhales, a quick little breath, face creasing, then says, “Have _dreams_ and whatnot.”

Fenris considers the enchanter at the edge of his vision. There is a conversation they should be having, but not in this company. He lifts a hand but it is futile. A motion makes him turn back to the enchanter, and she is shaking her head very slightly. He scowls, hands folding back together. He was not going to reach for Hawke; it would be poor timing. What does she know of them.

“Cards?” she suggests, has already located the deck. He does not know why she has not left.

“Certainly,” he says.

“Wicked Grace?”

He locks eyes with her. Something to do, at least. They have no knowledge of each other’s strategies, unless Varric has been looser-lipped than usual. “Very well.”

She deals, and there is no hint of magic about it, which sensible, at least. It would be wasteful. Hawke has always done it when sufficiently inebriated.

He examines his cards. Not a good start. “What made you think of the window?”

“Daylight,” Hawke says, and they both glance towards him. His palm is still pressing against his forehead, and he makes a slight shrug with his entire body. It is either a shudder or a gesture towards the enchanter. Then he adds, lifting his head to glance briefly at her, “Of course you know.”

“It can be difficult for the Fade to replicate certain natural environments,” she agrees, then reconsiders her cards. “Sunlight among them.”

“I will keep it in mind,” Fenris says, then hesitates. To Hawke, he says, “Shall I deal you in?”

Hawke looks down again and shuts his eyes. “No, thank you.”

“Do you—“

“I don’t.”

He lets it lie. Hawke does not drink any more of the tea, seems content to stay bent over the fragrant steam. The enchanter plays well, and he is several wagers down when Hawke finally says, “It’s your left eyebrow.”

He frowns down at his cards, then glances at Hawke, who has pushed the mug aside and pillowed his head on his arm over the course of the game to watch them, hair still rumpled and gaze distant. “What?”

“It twitches when you’ve got a bad hand.”

“You already knew that,” Fenris says sourly, and Hawke only shrugs very slightly, eyelids drooping.

“You didn’t. Kept doing it.”

Madam de Fer folds her hand, lays her cards facedown on the table. “How gracious of you to offer your assistance, Ser Champion. Wanted or not.”

Fenris ignores her. “It was not on purpose,” he says to Hawke.

“Don’t yell at me,” Hawke says quietly, face turning into his forearm. “I’m really very tired.”

“I am not yelling.” He is not. His words are carefully parceled and clipped. Then he looks to the enchanter, who only glances back, cool and composed. They both know she has already won this hand, and she has made no move to reclaim her cards.

“Do you require assistance finding the door?” he asks pointedly.

She measures him over, then smiles, gracious and genuine. “I should be glad of it.”

There is nothing for it but to stand and accompany her the few steps it takes to reach the door they entered hardly an hour before.

“What do you want,” he says as he shuts the door behind them, voice low.

Just as quietly, she answers, “I want you to look after him.” Pointedly, she adds, “I’ve heard about what happens to buildings when the Champion is around.”

He clenches his teeth. “That was no fault of his,” he says tightly, then looks aside.

“As you say,” she replies. She certainly means the opposite, but leaves it at that. “You have my thanks for a most bracing afternoon.”

“Your thanks are not necessary.”

She raises and lowers one shoulder very slightly. “Be that as it may, you have them.” Before she turns to leave, she adds, “Feel free to call upon me at any time.”

It seems a sincere offer, or at least he cannot sense any hidden mechanisms behind it. He does not answer, watches the stairway until he is sure she is gone, then retreats back inside and shuts the door.

Hawke is still at the table, half-draped across it. “Is she gone?”

“She is.” He settles back into his seat, gathering up the cards and repackaging them. “And you are?”

“I don’t know,” Hawke says, turning his face towards his arm. “Don’t ask. Very bad.” He begins to shiver and does not stop.

“Are you cold?”

“I don’t know,” he says, voice cracking. “I can’t tell. I can’t stop.”

Fenris gets up and wrests the topmost blanket from the bed. It is a thick, heavy wool, a fine weave but quickly growing rough from use. He brings it to Hawke. “Lift your head.”

When he does, Fenris folds one corner over his left shoulder, pausing before settling it carefully over the right.

Hawke immediately hunches forward again. “Thanks,” he says, hoarse now. His shivering does not abate.

“Think nothing of it.”

“I’ll try not to,” Hawke says, eyes shut and head pillowed on his left arm again. “I owe you so much already.”

“This is not a debt,” Fenris says, sharper than he had intended. Hawke’s eyes have opened again and he is beginning to sit up, staring at Fenris with someone approaching alarm.

Fenris hisses a breath out between his teeth, and drops back into his seat, folding his hands together. He tries to gentle his tone as he repeats, “It is not a debt. Or anything that requires repayment.”

He rubs his hands over his face, lowers them to the table again. “Hawke. You have been beside me at some of the most difficult moments of my life. I would like to do the same for you.”

“You know I’d be all right without you.”

Liar. “I would rather be here.”

“Good for you. Personally, I’m tired of being here, but there’s nowhere else to go.”

“We could go into the garden.”

“It’s cold, and I don’t like being gawped at.”

He does not remind Hawke of the open window. “You’ll be with me. I’m more interesting to gawk at.”

“You are handsomer,” Hawke allows. “But still no.”

“I do like it when you flatter me,” Fenris says. Then, “The blanket is slipping.”

Hawke tilts towards him when he reaches to adjust it. After he pulls the blanket up to Hawke’s shoulder again, he brushes back the hair behind Hawke’s ear. Growing long again, but likely he won’t let anyone cut it. Except perhaps Varric.

The air is growing untenably cold, and he shivers. “Can we close the window?”

“Will you leave it cracked?”

“I suppose,” he says, and something of his dismay must creep into his voice.

Hawke grimaces, embarrassed. “I know. I just— I like the air.”

“There is a great deal of it outside, if you like,” Fenris offers, heavy with meaning.

“No,” Hawke says, sharp and immediate. “No, I couldn’t. I know how it sounds— I know. I’m sorry.”

Fenris reaches past him to ease the window partly shut.

Hawke pulls the blanket tighter about himself and says, sounding as though he is choking on it, “I don’t want to be like this anymore.”

Fenris sits back. “Like what?”

“Like _this!_ Like all of this, where everything is so _much_ and I can’t— I can’t make sense of anything! I can’t think straight, I can’t focus, I— I feel like I’m losing my mind.” Then he shuts his eyes again and says, “I don’t know how to feel.”

An unenviable situation, but one Fenris has encountered before. “Good or bad?”

“I don’t know,” Hawke says, exhausted.

“Try,” he says, taking Hawke’s hand and pressing it close to his chest, willing his heartbeat not to rise.

“I’m alive,” Hawke says, voice cracking. “You’re here. So good, I think. Good.”

“Good.”

“But it doesn’t actually feel good,” Hawke adds in a rush. “I don’t know what it is.” His words are coming faster, higher. “I’m right back where I started.”

“I understand.”

“I’m so… I don’t know what it is,” he says again, pulling his hand away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what it is.”

“It is that you are healing,” Fenris says, sliding back and putting an arm around him. “It will pass.”

 _“When?”_ Hawke demands, unappeased.

“I don’t know.” Hawke makes a dismal noise, drops his head against Fenris’s shoulder. Fenris leans against him. “It is not something that seems predictable to me.”

“So it could take the rest of my life,” Hawke says, exhausted already.

No point in lying to him. “It might.”

“Ever the optimist.”

Fenris winces. “I am sorry. I should have— I should have said something else.”

“You’re honest,” Hawke says, but it sounds hollow.

Fenris shuts his eyes. “I wish I were kind.”

“I like who you are.”

“I like _you.”_

“Someone has to.”

“I do.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Fishing for compliments again?” he says, turning to rest his head against Hawke’s.

“You know how it goes. I _told_ Mother she should never have let me learn to fish. I didn’t even like it, anyway.” Then Hawke heaves a sigh, long and slow. “I am sorry. Truly.”

“I’m not.”

“I don’t mean to keep putting you in impossible situations.”

Fenris opens his eyes, does not move. “Hawke,” he says, searching for a diplomatic phrasing. He gives up, and says, “We _are_ an impossible situation.”

“Well, that just makes me feel so much better.”

“Good, then. It worked.”

Hawke says matter-of-factly, “I think your jokes are getting worse.”

“Hopefully one day soon they will match your sense of humor.”

Hawke huffs. It’s not a laugh, but it is close enough. “You always know just what to say.”

“If only that were true.”

 _“I_ think it’s true.”

“Flattery again? You are shameless.”

“But you’re such an inspiration to me. Let me see. Your mouth is supple and soft and just the right shape for kissing. I swear each line of your body was personally shaped by the Maker. Your dick--”

“Stop!” Fenris says, laughing as he puts a hand over Hawke’s mouth. 

Hawke’s tongue slides between two of his fingers, and he starts, lifts his hand. But when he leans in, Hawke moves away.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Hawke says abruptly. “I just. I don’t know.” He makes a frustrated noise, and Fenris grimaces. He feels it as well, all too keenly.

Then Hawke says, trying for humor, “Sorry I can’t polish your sword for you.”

“I am capable of maintaining my equipment myself.”

“I feel guilty.”

“There’s no reason you should,” Fenris tells him.

“I still feel like I’m letting you down. It’s _our_ responsibility.”

“It is not.”

“We share it sometimes.”

“It’s _mine.”_

Hawke laughs, then says, “I can’t tell, are we still talking about your dick or—“

“Not anymore, we aren’t.”

Hawke only laughs again, though it has a brittle edge to it, then looks aside. “I still. I know what it’s like. I know. I’m just. I’m so tired.”

“I understand.”

He means it. He had slept with some of the Fog Warriors, out of politeness, or curiosity. Or desperation. He hadn’t expected to pursue it any further, hadn’t thought he would seek someone to share his bed for a long, long while, had many other considerations on his mind after his arrival in Kirkwall anyway.

But Hawke had been a surprise.

Hawke touches him. Gently, just a brush of his hand against Fenris’s knee before withdrawing.

Fenris reaches after him. Grips his hand. Does not let him go.

“Hawke. I don’t… it would be a lie, to say that I do not care. That neither of us care. We both know that. But I care much more about you.”

“I miss you,” Hawke says, hand lax in his, gaze fixed somewhere on the far edge of the room. “I miss who I was.”

“I’m with you, regardless.”

“Haven’t the slightest idea why, though.”

“The beard,” Fenris says immediately, because perhaps Hawke will laugh. “Definitely the beard.”

“And you say I’m a flatterer,” Hawke says, pulling his hand free to rub at his chin. “Not very impressive right now, though.”

So, he is still in a somber mood. “Give it time,” Fenris says, leans against him again, only to have him pull away.

When he looks up, Hawke is watching him with something like alarm, something like dismay. “I don’t—” he starts, then clamps his mouth shut. Then he says, as though it were important, “Fen. Fenris. You don’t have to wait for me.”

Immediate and unbidden, the words spill out of him. “I would wait my whole life for you,” Fenris tells him, and Hawke’s eyes go wide.

“You really…” Hawke brushes his thumb against the corner of Fenris’s mouth. Hushed, he says, “You frighten me sometimes.”

“That is not my intent.” He hesitates, then ventures, “Do… Do you wish me to go?” He does not wish to, but if Hawke asked, he would.

“No.”

“Then it’s decided,” he says, relieved, turns his face against Hawke’s shoulder. “I am here. I will be here.”

“Thank you.”

—

It was inevitable, he thinks, that his social threads at Skyhold would grow ever more numerous, then tangled. It tended to happen around Varric.

He is keeping Varric company one day, settled at Varric’s usual haunt by the fire in the great hall, when a stranger approaches, and says, “A moment of your time, Varric?”

Fenris turns slightly to see him, then chokes on a laugh, then pretends to cough into his fist. He suspects he knows the stranger’s name already: bald as an egg and certainly a bit nuggish about the nose and mouth. He is being uncharitable. 

It is deeply entertaining. 

Varric shoots him a glance that makes him suspect Hawke has described the man on multiple occasions. 

The stranger is less amused, only raises an eyebrow as he glances between them. “Friend of yours, Varric?”

“Of course! Back from the good old days in Kirkwall.”

Fenris snorts, and they both pretend not to hear. ‘Good old days,’ indeed.

Meanwhile Varris is gesturing expansively between them, doubtless glad of another excuse to put off tending to his correspondences. “Fenris, Solas. Solas, the most miserable bastard this side of Orlais.”

Fenris scoffs. “We all know your opinion of Orlais, Varric, so I’ll thank you to leave me out of it.”

The stranger laughs quietly, then nods to him. “Aneth ara and well-met.”

“I am not a Dale,” Fenris says mildly. The fire is warm and he has been there a while, and has no desire to leave. It is no bad thing, he decides, to be mistaken for a Dale by another elf.

“My apologies. You wear the vallaslin, and I thought—” Then the stranger frowns, and looks closer at him. “Hold a moment.”

“Oh no,” says Varric.

“Is that _lyrium?”_ Solas demands, coming around the table for a better look. “Of course, you are— How are you not dead?”

“It is a continual surprise to me as well,” Fenris says, and feels his mood turn sour. There are a very few who can identify lyrium on sight, and he doubts this one is a templar. “Hear it singing, can you?”

“Of course,” the mage says, unashamed, then extends one hand, palm up. “I must ask. May I see?”

“No. Never.”

“Topic change!” says Varric brightly. “How about: literally anything else.”

Fenris eyes him, and waits. The mage persists.

“If there is someone else who can understand how it was done, then it may yet be undone, should you wish it.”

“And if I don’t?” he says. Too loud, he knows he is too loud, refuses to change it.

“Then it would be a shame, letting such an opportunity pass by.”

Fenris’s eyes narrow, and he sits straighter in his chair. “For myself, or for you? Meddling with things you have no right to understand. I know your kind.”

The mage’s expression shutters over, into a familiar, distant haughtiness. “Do you now.”

Fenris bristles, nearly rises from his chair but for a quick warning gesture from Varric. Regardless, he snarls, “It was mages like _you_ who made me as I am!”

“There is _no one_ like me,” Solas says sharply.

He sneers. Trust the arrogance of a mage to insist upon their own singularity. “Think what you like.”

“Hey, Broody,” Varric says, low and careful. “Take it easy. He’s been a friend.”

 _“Not_ one of mine,” Fenris tells him.

He can feel the mage’s gaze on him, cold and unyielding, but he is not addressed further. Instead the mage turns and says mildly to Varric, “Another time?”

“I believe that would be best,” Fenris informs him as Varric sighs.

The mage eyes him without turning his head, mouth going pinched. Then he nods stiffly to Varric and stalks away.

“Well, that was exciting,” Varric mutters, presumably to himself.

He scoops up his cards and taps them back into a stack, shuffling them once from habit. Then, carefully, he puts them away. Good. Fenris is in no mood for further games.

“So,” Varric says, reaching for his neglected papers. “Are you going to pick a fight with everyone in Skyhold?”

“Is everyone in Skyhold going to ask such questions of me?”

Varric sorts his papers into three separate piles before saying slowly, “It wouldn’t hurt to make some friends here.”

“I cannot see what it would help, either.”

“Connections, Broody. It’s all about connections. Our ambassador can tell you, if you’ve got time to listen.”

“I _know_ about connections,” he snaps. 

“But you never bother to _use_ them,” Varric counters, then holds up a hand. “Ah ah. That thing with Aveline doesn’t count. She’d have done it anyway.”

“I choose not to use them for a reason, Varric.”

“Care to share with the class?”

“No.”

Varric sighs, setting aside two piles and dropping weights onto them. “All right. So that’s how it is today.”

“Look at this, two of my favorite people,” Hawke’s voice says to the side of them. “And also Varric and Fenris.”

“Hawke!” Varric exclaims, clearly relieved. “There you are, you big lug.”

“Here I am,” Hawke agrees, dropping into the chair beside Fenris. “What’s got you frowning this afternoon?”

“Varric has just been introducing me to some of his new friends.”

“Sounds fun,” Hawke says, though he looks askance at Varric.

“I didn’t mean to,” Varric protests. “He just snuck out of his little hidey-hole!”

“I’m confused now, are we talking about Fenris or your friend?”

 _“Hawke,”_ Fenris says, unamused.

“I find your hidey-holes endearing,” Hawke says sweetly, reaching for his hand. Fenris pulls it out of range. Hawke tries again.

Varric has assumed his most put-upon expression. “No, _Solas.”_

“Oh, him,” Hawke says, giving up. “He has a lot to say, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t trust him,” Fenris says, tone flat.

“That’s about what I thought would happen,” Hawke remarks, then stretches one foot over and nudges him.

Fenris rolls his eyes. “Though I can’t see any reason to, he thinks very highly of himself,” he says stiffly.

“Absolutely. He’s got his head all the way up his ass,” Hawke says cheerfully as Varric laughs. “But I’m pretty sure he saved my life.”

Varric stops laughing and looks at the table. 

“I see,” Fenris says, as soon as he can speak around the lump in his throat.

“He knows his stuff,” Varric agrees, unusually subdued.

“There isn’t a spirit-healer worth a damn for miles,” Hawke continues blithely. “Pity. I’d like it if no one poked me and asked ‘Does that hurt?’ at all this week.”

“Does it?” Fenris asks before he can think better of it. 

Varric shoots him a warning look, would likely kick him under the table if he could reach, but Hawke only shrugs, expression gone carefully neutral.

“I’m getting used to it,” he says, then rubs his face. “Don’t want to get all mopey now, though. I was in _such_ a good mood.”

“Cards?” Varric suggests blithely, pulling out his deck again. “Losing money to me always makes you feel better.”

Hawke makes a face. “Not the word I’d use.”

“What, ‘money’?”

“’Feel’?”

 _“‘Better,’”_ Hawke says, grimacing at both of them. “‘Losing’ is also bad. Also you’re a cheat,” he says to Varric, who only laughs.

“I prefer the term ‘opportunist,’ myself.”

“’Swindler,’ more like,” Fenris says, traps the card Varric slides to him beneath one hand. “A con artist of the highest degree.”

“That, my friend, is the best compliment I’ve gotten out of you yet,” Varric says, laughing. “Now come on, let’s see if you two can’t win some money back from me.”

—

The next day, the Chargers welcome him into their training routine a second time. They are clever, capable fighters, and a greater challenge than he’s had in a while. He welcomes the distraction.

After the session has been called to a halt, he is wiping the sweat from his face, getting ready to leave, when there is a shout behind him.

“Hey! You, Kirkwall!” The lieutenant, he thinks. He turns to meet him.

“Varric is also from Kirkwall,” he points out for the umpteenth time, but is dismissed again.

“But that’s not what we’re calling him, is it?” someone on the far end of the field calls. The Dalish one.

 _“‘Master Tethras,’”_ someone else says, making a face.

“Blowhard,” another says, but fondly.

The lieutenant ignores all of them. “Kirkwall, your blade.”

A chorus of scandalized interest rises from the Chargers. Abruptly, he misses Isabela.

“Oh, please,” the lieutenant says, exasperated. “Don’t mind them. They’re just testing you.”

“They’ll have to do better than that,” he replies, unslinging his harness and handing over the whole affair.

Lieutenant Aclassi unsheathes a handspan of steel, then says, “Look here. Cross-guard’s got some give. You’re going to want to fix that. Smith’s just that way, but if it’s actually a real Blade of Mercy, might need a specialist.”

“It is,” he says, with a touch of smugness.

Lieutenant Aclassi gives him a look that plainly says he does not believe a word of it, then resheathes the blade and hands it back. “Well, see what she can do anyway. And come by anytime. Good to see a real two-hander in action.”

Fenris examines the crossguard as well. “Don’t favor the southern styles, I take it?”

“Maker, no! Swordplay like the food: stodgy, bland, and brutal.” The lieutenant grins. “But effective. There are worse places to be.”

Fenris slings his sword back over his shoulder. “Agreed.”

For a moment, it seems as though the lieutenant will say something else, but he appears to think better of it. “See you again, I hope,” Fenris says, before he can change his mind.

“Come by any time,” the lieutenant says, then turns to rejoin his people. Fenris watches him go, does not expect the sting of envy. He pushes it down, and goes to find the smith.

A woman in the smithyard watches him coming, then points to a table. “Put’er there.”

He does as told, and the smith looks at it, grunts, then hands it back.

“Enchanted,” she says, then jerks her head towards the door. “Bring it to Dagna. She lives for that.”

“Who?”

“Dagna.” She takes a closer look at his face, then says, “New here? Main hall, door right of the Herald’s throne. Take you to the Undercroft. She’ll be there.”

—

“Ooh! I have _never_ seen a genuine one before! It’s quite macabre, don’t you think? Looks like a fairly simple enchantment,” the dwarf called Dagna says, squinting at the blade. “But! There are some complexities in the way it was worked into the metal. Have to have a way to distinguish real from fake, am I right?”

“Yes?”

“Of course,” she says in tones of great satisfaction. He suspects he needn’t have said anything. “Basic principles of the market. Finely crafted, too. Look at the edge, and that balance. Of course, it has to be, right? Even shoddy enchanted weapons cost a tidy sum. This one’s a work of _art.”_

And yet, it had come by means unknown to languish in Kirkwall. He has never felt such kinship with another weapon.

“And the cost?”

She laughs. “Not to worry! The _Inquisition_ pays me, not you.”

He hesitates, hand already extended with what he hopes is the correct amount of coin.

“Don’t worry,” she says, and gently pushes his hand back before he thinks to draw it back. 

He tenses. She hardly notices, frowning down at her hand instead. He pulls his away, and her gaze follows.

“That’s, ah, very extensive vallaslin! Am I saying that right? Which clan is that for?”

“None,” he says shortly.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I just assumed-- I know some folks don’t have the best relationship with their clans, I probably shouldn’t have even asked-- Actually, I’m sorry, is that _lyrium?_ May I?”

“No,” he says, shifting his weight, recalling the layout of the room. 

“Just a quick look! I mean, it should be _impossible,_ it kills _dwarves_ on contact! All right, I mean, it’s ingestible when treated, but-- Did you do this, you have to--”

“No!” he says, much louder, backing away.

“Can you tell me--”

He flees.

The Undercroft door slams shut behind him, and the entire crowd gathered before the inquisitor’s throne turns to look. Partway to the dais, the inquisitor himself pauses and raises his eyebrows.

“Lost?”

“No,” Fenris says, then stalks past, shoulders tight and fists clenched. 

Varric peels out of the crowd to follow him. “Hey,” he says softly. “Hey, Broody. Fenris. Elf. You all right?”

He runs. Two sets of doors, and he is already out of sight. He turns quickly once he enters the courtyard, slips into the shrine to Andraste. The door he leaves ajar behind him, tucks himself in the corner just beside the doorframe. Supplicants have come and gone without noticing him before. 

It is not so long before someone pushes the door open, and he scowls to himself, keeps silent. They may only be coming to pray.

“Hello?”

He does not reply.

The Seeker enters the room, glancing first to the far corners before locating him.

“Are you well?”

“I am praying,” he says flatly, and waits for her to leave.

She approaches. He does not move.

“Dagna would like to apologize. She did not mean to cause you any distress.”

He is not distressed. Merely tired.

“Your sword will be ready in two days.”

“Thank you,” he says by rote, then waits for her to leave.

She considers him for a moment longer, then says, “Why is it that when I look to the cause of each disturbance in the past few days, I find you?”

“I’m a people-person,” he says.

She does not know him well enough to laugh. Instead her mouth crimps at the edges, and she comes to sit on the same ledge along the wall, still far enough away that she would have to reach to touch him.

“She means well.”

He grimaces. “I’ve heard that one before.”

She looks at him strangely, and he resists the urge to fidget. “I’m sure you have.”

_Varric._

“What, exactly, have you heard of me?”

“Enough,” she says, back straight, shoulders relaxed, eyes fixed to the far wall. “I know you escaped servitude in Tevinter, and fled to Kirkwall, fell in with the Champion. I know you killed the man who enslaved you, claimed your freedom. I know you are good with the sword, though frequently become reckless, and that you care deeply for the Champion.”

“How clever of you.”

She smiles, a little grimly. “Oh, no. You may thank Varric for that.”

“I certainly shall.”

There is a little silence, then she inhales and says, “Tell me, how is it that a fugitive from Tevinter finds himself both at Kirkwall when the Circles fell, and now here?”

“I don’t know. There I was, running for my life, and the man I sent into a trap said, ‘Let me help you.’”

“And here you are?”

He laughs, briefly, once. “And here I am.”

“Some people pull you in,” she says, and when he looks up, she has her eyes turned in the direction of the main hall of Skyhold. “Your friend, Varric. He believes in stories, that they have weight and power. I do not think he is wrong, but I am not sure he is right. What about you?”

He eyes her warily. He has heard enough of these questions, asked both sober and drunk. “What _about_ me?”

“What do you believe in?”

“Existence.”

“And that is it?”

“That’s all there is.”

“I disagree.”

“Please, spare yourself the trouble of trying to convert me.”

She laughs, startled and genuinely amused. “I am not trying to _convert_ you. I simply disagree.”

He suppresses a sigh. That sounds familiar, but he will play along. “Do you? What do you believe?”

“That there is a plan,” she says firmly. “There must be an end to all this. It is the Maker’s will.”

He snorts.

“You really do not believe?”

“I have no reason to.”

She considers him, then says, “I have seen you lighting candles at the altar.”

“Those are for Hawke.”

“Are you lighting them because he does not himself? Or for his recovery?”

He does not answer. Last week, Hawke dropped a fork for the third time during the span of one meal, then wept for half an hour. They leave windows unshuttered, because Hawke sleeps best in daylight. Hawke continues not sleeping until he nearly drops where he stands, because he hates to dream.

Fenris looks at his hands.

“I do not mean to pry.”

This is blatantly a lie. “Somehow I doubt that.”

Ideally, she would take offense and storm away. If her tightening jaw is any indication, she is certainly considering it. 

She decides against it. They continue sitting in silence.

It is deeply uncomfortable.

A candle begins sputtering in its pool of wax, no more than a stub. The Seeker looks at it a moment, then rises to retrieve a new candle.

Kneeling before the old one, she murmurs something too soft to hear before lighting the new candle from the old. She sets the new votive down so they are side-by-side, makes a gesture as though to pinch the old flame out, but leaves it. 

After a moment, she sighs and stands, dusting off her knees before turning back to him. “Whatever you may think of me, I wish you luck.”

Something in the way she stands brings him back across the sea, to Kirkwall and the captain of its guard.

“You remind me of Aveline.” It is the kindest thing he can think to say. It is also the truest.

It may only be the lighting, but it seems she flushes, has the beginnings of a smile before she turns away. “Oh?” Then she shakes her head and snorts. “An upright woman caught up in some lunatic’s mess. You flatter me.”

He frowns. “Aveline has never been ‘caught up’ in anything she didn’t want to be a part of.”

The Seeker is silent for a moment. “Then maybe we are more similar than I thought.”

He regards her, is not sure what else there is to say. “Perhaps.”

She looks at him again. “And she is still across the sea, is she not? In Kirkwall?”

“She is.”

“I hope you see her again.”

His mouth goes dry. Strange, the sensation.

“I hope so, too.”

He will have to tell Hawke. A plan, for when Hawke is better.

He dares to hope it will be soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly at the end; next week's chapter will be the last! Thanks so much for sticking with this, and also for the sweet thoughtful comments! I'm pretty shy about replying, but I read and cherish them all <3
> 
> Hope everyone's staying safe and well!


	7. Chapter 7

Three weeks later, Hawke has been corralled into the infirmary again. His shoulder itched, he said, and Fenris had told him it was healing, taken his hand away when he scratched.

Then Hawke began to complain of feeling swollen, and it began to seep.

“It’s because you’ve been picking at it,” one healer says. “Now please hold still, Ser Hawke.”

“I have _not_ been _‘picking at it,’”_ Hawke insists, a brittle edge to his voice. 

“Not for lack of trying,” Fenris says.

Hawke scowls at him, then flinches when the healer says, “Hold still,” and presses.

“Don’t _do_ that!”

“Please pay attention,” she says, exasperated and weary. An expedition has just returned from the Hissing Wastes, is the rumor. Hard to believe there is anything worth seeing so far west.

Hawke flinches again.

“Ser Hawke! Please,” she says, brow furrowing.

“I hate people poking at me,” he mutters, but subsides.

“Understandable,” Fenris tells him, and he grunts. 

He only becomes more agitated as the examination progresses, but the healer has seen him often enough before, and finds what she needs to know before he can protest too much. She sighs, and goes to wash her hands.

When she returns, she says, “We’ll want to head it off before it progresses much further. If it gets worse, we’ll have to lose some sound flesh to cut away the bad, and frankly, ser, I’m not sure you have the flesh to lose.”

Hawke cringes. Fenris puts a hand on his shoulder and he cringes from that as well. Fenris takes his hand away, looks to the healer, frowning.

“Is this necessary?”

“It won’t be if he cooperates this time.”

“It’s fine, Fenris,” Hawke says. Then, indignantly, “I’ve _been_ cooperating.”

“You’ve been doing a very passable job of pretending to cooperate. I can tell you what we need to do. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes,” Fenris says, as Hawke grunts.

She looks between them, then says to Fenris, “We’ll take out the stitches, clean it out, but it may not be wise to close it up again. It may be best to wait for the deepest tissue to begin healing before we seal it again, so this doesn’t keep happening.”

“And?” Hawke asks, obviously dreading the answer.

“And what?”

“And you’re not telling me something, because I don’t know, you don’t think I can handle it. Just give me all the bad news at once. And?”

She sighs, then relents. “We don’t know the extent of the infection. We may have to reopen some areas. lt may hurt.”

Something… breaks inside Hawke’s expression. Hard to know what else to call it. The features remain as they are, but everything behind them seems to sag. With no other motion, he has become worn. Diminished, somehow.

“Ready?”

“No,” Hawke says bleakly, then, “Just. Give me a moment.”

His breathing is carefully measured, a familiar thing by now. One, two, then hold on three. One, two, release. Just enough to give the impression of normalcy.

Hawke blinks hard and looks at the floor. “Fen. Fenris.”

“If you need anything, I am here.” Fenris reaches to touch Hawke’s cheek. It’s all he can think to give.

Hawke leans away from him.

“Please go,” he says, voice flat, hand white-knuckled. He does not look up.

“Hawke, I—”

“I don’t want to know you saw this.”

There is nothing he can say.

He leaves. 

For an instant, he turns his steps towards the Herald’s Rest, then decides against it. He heads down instead, past the main gate and the encampments, towards the stables. So long as he keeps to himself, he is rarely questioned.

He bypasses the stables entirely, then walks through the repurposed barn in the back, saying nothing to the Grey Warden in the corner. Now there’s a man who knows how to mind his own business. 

There is a clear and narrow patch of grass behind the building. He sits. After a moment, he leans back against the wall.

A scuff at the doorway alerts him, and he glances towards the sound. The warden is standing there. They were introduced once. Was he… Black… beard? That’s not it. It’s all he can think of now, though.

Serah Black-something folds his arms. “Cold out there.”

“Perhaps.”

“There’s space by the fire, if you want it.”

“Thank you.”

After a few moments, the warden returns inside. Fenris does not rise. It may be cold, but it is quiet, and he stays as long as he can tolerate it. When he cannot, he forces his legs to unfold and stand and carry him to the fire. The warden only looks up from his carving, then returns to his work.

Fenris stays until he can feel his fingers again, then departs without another word.

He nearly collides with Varric as he leaves the stables.

“Fenris! There you are. Have you seen Hawke?”

“He was in the infirmary when I saw him last. Have you tried his room?”

“And the tavern and the main hall and the kitchen, and half of Skyhold by now. Healer came by with another stack of medicines she wants him to start today.”

“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled about that.”

“That’s why I’m leaving that happy task to you. Find him, will you?”

They speak lightly, but there is strain around Varric’s eyes.

“Of course,” Fenris says. For him, the tightness is all in his chest. 

Varric pats him on the arm. “Thanks. I’ll keep looking.”

He trots off and Fenris turns to look over Skyhold. He turns a slow circle, considering the build of the castle, scanning the ramparts, then likely rooms. If he is not at the Herald’s Rest or the kitchens, then he will not around any large gatherings of people at all. Somewhere quiet, then. Lonely. With a view. Hawke will want a view.

“He’s up there.”

Fenris whirls, reflexively reaching for a hilt that isn’t there. The demon is out of reach anyway, watching him from beneath its wide-brimmed hat. It is pointing to the ramparts behind him, a touch to his left.

“Who.”

“Your friend. The one you love.”

“I—”

“It’s the right word. It’s big enough for everything, even the unsaid things in all the empty spaces.”

He does not bother correcting it. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

“Your friend’s tired. He went up the wrong set of stairs, then got angry when the stones were just stones.”

“What else would they have been?” he snaps.

The demon looks at him oddly, pityingly, and he regrets even speaking to it at all. Perhaps he should try to be less angry. He is walking away when it says gently, “A way out.”

He turns. It is gone.

He clenches his teeth so as not to say anything unwise, and heads for the nearest set of stairs.

They are crumbling, in poor repair. The footing is steady enough, but one or two of the stones still surprise him. He decides not to search for signs of recent disruption, and walks faster.

Reaching the top, he squints. The light off the stone and the mountains beyond is dazzling, and he misses it at first, the dark crumpled shape against cracked wall. He freezes, disbelieving. It is impossible. Hawke was fine this morning. He would not have been led here only to find— he has no reason to trust the word of a demon. But if something had happened, someone else would have seen him, surely. Hawke could never do anything quietly.

Then the wind whistles past his ears, and Hawke grumbles in his sleep, curls tighter. Fenris breathes again, rubs his face. He hates this weather, he hates the numbness, the biting wind, the cold. He keeps his hands over his face a moment longer, then goes to examine Hawke at dubious rest. 

In the span of a day, Hawke has aged a decade, and he is drooling onto his shirt. His eyes are sunken, and his beard will need trimming soon, and the lines on his face are graven deep. His neck is canted to a side at an uncomfortable angle, body listing left to protect his shoulder. When he wakes, he will complain of the ache in his neck, then likely that his arm is asleep, then of the rocks digging into his side. He won’t speak of his time in the infirmary. 

Best get started. He kneels.

“Wake up, Hawke.”

Hawke flinches, then uncurls slowly, groaning. “Fen?”

He stays where he is, an arm’s length away, waiting as Hawke’s eyes open, then flick from rubble to sky to tower to hall and back.

“This is no place to sleep.”

“I’d really like it to be.” Hawke shifts, then winces, hissing out a breath as he wipes his mouth. He sits up slowly, in increments, hand braced flat on the ground. “I’ve changed my mind, actually. You’re right and this hurts very much, so please carry me back to bed.”

Fenris doesn’t move. “We both know that never ends well. And it’s far.”

Hawke rolls his eyes. “At least try, why don’t you. I’m much lighter now.”

“That joke will cost you,” Fenris warns him, unamused.

“An arm and a leg!” Hawke says, voice going high and strained towards the end, but he still laughs. “Maker, I hope not. It wasn’t a very good one. Too expensive, that.”

There’s no reasoning with him when he’s like this. “It seems you haggled Him down.”

“I’ve always been a charmer.”

“Are you implying that you seduced the Maker?”

“He wouldn’t have given me these lips if He hadn’t intended for me to use them. You’re not jealous, are you?”

“Only worried. What of his Bride?”

“The more, the merrier! You’re also invited, which goes without saying.”

“Of course,” he says, struggling with his misgivings. Hawke rarely blasphemes so egregiously.

Hawke grins at him, eyes tired, then rubs his face, runs his hand through his hair. He shivers, then pulls his cloak closer around him.

“Thank you,” he says, “for coming to find me. How was your day? Better than mine, I hope.”

Evidently. He says nothing, and reaches for Hawke.

Hawke leans away again. “Don’t,” he says quietly, breathing going uneven.

“Are you—”

“No. I’m not. So don’t.”

“You didn’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“Yes I did. ‘Are you hungry,’ ‘are you sore,’ ‘are you well,’ ‘are you skipping out on your medicine,’ ‘are you sleeping enough.’” He pauses, adds, “‘Are you sleeping at all.’”

“Are you?”

“You just saw me,” he says, but his indignation rings hollow. He rubs his neck and exhales, shutting his eyes. “Probably shouldn’t have. Maker, this hurts.”

He goes to sit beside Hawke, facing him. Hawke leans in without looking, presses his face into Fenris’s shoulder.

“Are you well?”

A pause, then Hawke shakes his head minutely. Once, twice.

“I’m tired, is what I am,” he says to the hollow of Fenris’s neck. “And afraid. And I’m tired of being afraid.”

“That’s fine.”

“It’s _not ‘fine!’”_ he says, voice cracking on the last word, and begins to weep.

“Shit,” Fenris says, and wraps both arms around Hawke. It’s a good word. Very expressive. But not of further use at the moment.

It’s every one of Hawke’s tragedies all over again. Once again, Fenris comes with too little, and too late. He doesn’t even have a framework, much less a plan.

But he can start with what he knows. The pain from Hawke’s shoulder causes him distress. He is still too weak for any significant healing, and after the fall of the Circles, there are no spirit healers to be found.

The blood-witch would help. She can be relied upon, barely. Could a Circle-approved healer— the _abomination._ Where is he now? Fenris could find him. He could wrest information from Varric, follow the hints and rumors, track him down, drag him all the way to Skyhold, if necessary.

He would do this, if it would ease Hawke’s pain even a whit. He would do many things. But none of them would help Hawke now.

Instead he says, “No. You’re right. It’s not fine. But we’ll make it through, anyhow. You’ve always had a talent for surmounting the insurmountable.”

He suspects Hawke is not listening. Which is understandable. He wouldn’t either in Hawke’s place, so fraught with fear and pain it seems he will rattle himself apart.

There is, lurking, the unsettling feeling that he has in his arms all the disparate pieces that form Garrett Hawke. They’ve become disjointed. They’ve fallen apart. He is not putting them back together. He is simply holding onto them until Hawke can do so himself.

He worries sometimes that it is not enough. But it is all he can do.

So he waits. He waits for what feels like a very long time. He holds Hawke close and strokes his hair and says true and useless things. ‘Hawke.’ ‘I’m here.’ ‘I know.’

Hawke cries all the while in long, wracking, open-mouthed sobs, sometimes nearly wails. They are awful sounds, filled with only misery and pain. Fenris pulls Hawke flush against his chest, would like to shut his eyes but cannot bear to. His scars ache. If he had ever cried like this, he does not want to remember. 

And yet... 

No one had held him the way he is holding Hawke. He does not think it would have helped him then. But the memories might have been easier to bear.

What a vast and terrible thing, to be needed. What a terrible thing, to need.

But he does not let go.

There is a scuff behind him. Still holding Hawke, Fenris twists to glare over his shoulder at the interloper. If they say anything, if they come within arm’s reach, he will kill them. If he can do so without having to let go of Hawke, all the better.

The hapless servant raises his hands, and turns to go back down the stairway. Fenris watches him go. Good, then. Perhaps he will tell Varric.

Eventually, Hawke rallies. He always does. It must cost him more each time.

He coughs and sniffs, then turns away to wipe his nose and eyes on his cloak. “What’s that you said about a talent?” he asks, voice clotted and unsteady. He sniffs again, scrubbing harder at his face. “Terrible thing to have. I’d like to make a formal complaint.”

Fenris takes his wrist to keep him from rubbing his face raw. “That’s you, Hawke. Always by the book.”

“You know me,” Hawke agrees, burying his face back against Fenris’s neck, then starts to shiver.

Fenris pulls him closer, right hand curling through his hair, left settling against his back. There is little to say, but he kisses the top of Hawke’s head, waits for the delicate, breakable moment to pass.

“I do,” he says quietly when Hawke stills again.

Hawke pats him twice on the shoulder, but does not lift his head. His breathing is short and harsh, but steady, mouth open. The lines of his shoulders and neck are still rigid, a nearly suppressed tremor running through them. His hand is curling and uncurling against Fenris’s back. It itches, or tickles. Fenris does not comment on it, only cups his hand around the back of Hawke’s neck.

Hawke makes a small sound, exhausted, nestles closer. “I like it when you hold me.”

“Hush. I know.”

“Will it be all right?”

Fenris hesitates, but does not ask him to clarify. “It will be fine,” he says instead. “It will all be fine.”

Hawke sighs, takes a breath, and holds it. He releases it all in a rush, then tries again. And again. And again. Slowly, his breathing begins to ease.

“What would I do without you?” he says, voice hoarse.

Fenris holds him as tightly as he dares, refuses to consider it.

“I can hardly imagine,” he says at last.

“I don’t want to.”

“As well you should. Who else would wake you when you fall asleep on the ramparts? You would be carried away by eagles.”

“To eat?” Hawke says, falsely incredulous. “Cannibals.”

“You are not a bird, Hawke.”

Hawke chuckles, then sighs.

“Thank you,” he says, and shifts, angles in until his lips find the dip just above Fenris’s collarbone. He kisses a line up Fenris’s throat, ends at the soft skin just beneath his jaw.

Fenris inhales unsteadily. 

_“Hawke,”_ he says. He hopes he sounds forbidding. It is not the time, not the place, but for a moment, it seems as though it could be. There is a great deal he wants right now, has been left wanting.

“I know.”

If he pressed, he thinks Hawke would yield to him. He cannot abide the thought. He would have Hawke willing and eager in his bed, or nothing.

There are many other things he wants more, besides. For the bruising to finally fade from Hawke’s face and arms and chest. For his split lip to close over and not crack again. For him to stop picking at the gash across his chest so it pulls open and bleeds. For the gaping wound where his arm used to be to finally heal. For him to sleep soundly through the night.

So many things that he can do nothing about. So he holds Hawke, and hopes it is enough.

Hawke pulls himself away, wiping his eyes. He sniffs once, then wraps his arm about himself, chafing his side. “Cold out here.”

Fenris suppresses a shiver, draws his knees up to his chest. “We could go inside.”

“It’s bracing, not unpleasant. How did you find me, anyhow?”

“That _thing_ told me,” Fenris says, scowling. “The one that looks like a human.”

“What, Cole?” Hawke says, as though this were a reasonable and normal response.

“It’s not a person.”

“Varric likes him,” Hawke says blandly.

“It frightens me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Fenris looks down at him. “Why are you always sorry for things beyond your control?”

“Anything else I can do about them?”

‘Nothing,’ he nearly suggests, but this is not the answer Hawke is looking for, and is likely one he has multiple responses to already, most of them varying degrees of snide.

“No,” he says at last. After a moment, he sighs. “You are impossible.”

“Implausible, maybe,” Hawke says, eyes shut. “People should stop believing so many of Varric’s stories.”

“Have you considered giving him less truth to stretch?”

“If I didn’t, he’d just make something up. Remember that one with the ten Carta thugs and the gigolo?”

“I’ve heard a few variations. I particularly like the one where you’re in your smalls.”

“Ugh, don’t tell me. If I didn’t batter someone to death with my bulging manhood, it’s not worth hearing.”

“Poor thugs. I sympathize.” 

“You are _terrible,”_ Hawke says, laughing, some of the strain lifted from his face. “But you were right about one thing. I _am_ hungry. And sore. And tired. So I’d like to go to bed, please. Are you sure you won’t carry me?”

Fenris looks at him and considers, but not particularly seriously. It is far, and he was being truthful about carrying Hawke. He can’t. Not up and down multiple flights of stairs, in still unfamiliar territory, with obstacles he is still learning. But Hawke’s balance has been off, and he is tired, and however he got here on his own, it’s doubtful he will get safely back without assistance. 

All things Fenris knew already. He would make the same choice even without knowing. It is what he came here to do.

“I can’t carry you,” he tells Hawke, getting to his feet before reaching out again, waiting. “But I’ll be with you.”

“That’s fine, then,” Hawke says, and takes his hand. “That’s all I need.”


End file.
